Birth of VenusA Story by Monroe The final thoughts of a scorned woman and the soft and slow blooming of death through an act of suicide. Birth of Venus My life was but a play, a tragedy leading up to the curtain call. A predestined final climax. The stage of this final scene a cheap desolate motel, a love motel for couples specifically, in the middle of God knows where. It was a mindful plea to maintain an ounce of grace of my own home, shield it from the soil of sin. The thought of being found dead in my own sanctuary of shelter, deteriorated by the appetite of maggots, felt a bigger crime than the one I sought to commit. Being found stripped of life all too personal of an act alone. I couldn’t bear the thought of intrusion, foreigners rifling through my forsaken discards whose perpetual physicality prohibited following into afterlife. Long have I disregarded the notion of disgrace, either of myself or of those attached to me. Attachment not of love, but of forced entry into lives who I’m positive see my presence as no less than an intruder with sinister motive. My attachment no mere newborn simply nourishing the pink, swollen n****e of loving mother. The infant’s only motive to consume vitality and begin its own, to which mother willingly and delightedly provided. No, I was suffocation and depravity weighing anyone within proximity down to the trenches of the bottom of the ocean. I was completely disposable, existing for the sake of existing, surrounded by bright shooting stars full of glowing purpose. Suicide was the word to which I would be attached to following my bleak and fateful decision of writing my own ending. I would become the girl who killed herself, far too fragile for this wicked world. It would find its way into conversation much too morbid to be discussed so nonchalantly. Empathy saved for those deserving of such. For the children victims of molestation and murder, for cancer patients hopelessly fighting an invisible adversary, for the cases of wrong place wrong time as we see in terrorism. My self-immolation would be shrouded in shaking heads and stern stoned looks given to by the Gorgon herself, Medusa. Were the promise and thoughts of self mutilation being whispered by the primitive huntress that was the cold blooded snake, its venomous cancer eroding at my sanity? Would that then make me Eve? The biblical scapegoat embodied by the very first woman, a pattern of all women to follow and assume her sacrifice by accepting the incrimination of womanhood. My apple being the sweet and satisfying taste of death, my tongue awaiting its oath of demise. Often as my thoughts came, I soon found myself grounded back to reality in a swift bursting of a bubble. As night settled into witching hour, my vision began to betray me much like the far from heavenly universe which turned its back on me. A bottle of pills consumed like candy slowly making its way into my soon to be failing system. The strange haze of neon signs lined these walls, additionally lined by a cheap and peeling wallpaper patterned with violently crimson roses, offered no aid. Rather in this stupor they reminded me of blaring exit signs signaling ghostly transition. Though they served to illicit the removal of clothing, weaving of lips, and mostly the union of flesh & love; its effect was lost on my libido. “LOVE ME”, “DIRTY GIRL”, and of course the conservatively subtle “SWALLOW” may as well have read “KILL ME”, “DEAD GIRL”, or “DECAY”. I lay in a heart shaped bed so wrongly misused in such context, clearly longing pornographic perversion. Perhaps it were the capsules of medicine doing a number on my disoriented mind, but I could feel a heartbeat emanating from the bed of which seemed to match my own. Every minute that passed slowed and lulled to the rhythm of my own. How much longer until it stopped completely? I couldn’t even begin to explain my decision, to which of many might perceive as selfish acts of angst and woes of a misguided jezebel. I was that and much more. A b***h, s**t, w***e, c**t, trollop, tramp, witch, and everything in between. However the words that haunted me the most were ones often deeply rooted in affection. Daughter, sister, friend, and even lover. I could never quite deliver on the promises they entail, the regality they provoke, much more endearing than the title of Queen or Princess could ever imagine. How could one think to being of worth to someone else, if you were hardly of worth to yourself? It was a guttural realization that my lack of worth should be rewarded with lack of life. Imagine my surprise to find this shell of myself I’ve effectively sentenced to execution, betray the numbness and acceptance my mind had settled itself on. A single tear slid from my eye, following the contours of my face yet not quite finding itself to follow the now fading veins that provided an exit route down my neck. It would remain frozen on my cheek, perhaps still stubbornly sat there when some poor unfortunate manages to find me, my soul miles away. My irrefutable final creation, a symbol of melancholy that might show I wasn’t completely empty and devoid of humanity. Pulling up the now very heavy blanket that cascades across the heart shaped bed, I bring it up to my chest to relish in the final fleeting moment of comfort that some of the little things we often mistaken to be trivial provide. My hands find rest and comfort in each other, crossed like the crucifix at the cavity of my heart. My eyes come to a close, the pain no more devastating than the emotional turmoil of existence that I still can’t forgive for its infliction in these terminal moments. My brain softly beginning to sing her own final, fateful swan song. Creation though is an endless cycle which must always find its way through the turbulence and thundering roar of destruction before it can begin anew. Eve’s creation of woman was quite clearly destruction. Rivaling her the beauty in creation and the beaming onslaught of all the marvels heaven had to offer. Venus, also often honored as the first woman, shed light where Eve cast shadow. Venus was the sun, Eve the haunting illumination of the moon bringing upon the lonely rise of night. Eve called to me now, threatening to consume what little was left and drag me to an unspeakable eternity of bitter sorrow. The unbearable and intensity of frost replaced every last temperature of warmth which still belonged to me, stiffening my muscles and draining my sparkling brilliance. The gloomy cold challenged by the burning ripple and shred of every remaining nerve and muscle, losing a fight with death. A streak of beaming light however, interrupted the daunting and veiled task of rigor mortis. With my final breath, I found myself welcoming a warm embrace and desperately clinging to it. I gave myself to Venus, granting my final decree to be shaped into a vision of her eternal beauty. © 2018 MonroeAuthor's Note
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MonroeCity of Angels, CAAboutAn aspiring novelist, pulled by the force of creativity with a need to write. I particularly enjoy writing from the female perspective yet always offering a chilling grit, a bite to each story. I take.. more..Writing
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