She's Beautiful

She WAS beautiful, back then… a glow from my computer screen that kept me from the sun; what other light did I need. This world before as it is now was at least for me surrounded by darkness, a darkness not only of my own making but when I saw this girl well… she became my light at the end of the tunnel.

Before me, before them, and certainly before her I had every reason to stay indoors, I was taught that what was outside would hurt me; what I wasn’t told were those things would be my face, my body, and everything else. To me there was never such a thing as only people but that’s what I was afraid of especially my own people; hell the Ku Klux Klan, Neo-Nazis, and Republicans and what scared me the most was black people. My greatest fear was The Abomination, ironically the one thing you would think would precipitate my leaving but there was nothing out there; no warmth, no love, and no light.

I was raised in darkness, The Abomination, the world, and evils kept hidden before there was no longer a place to hide; compared to The Abomination, the perversity, the depravity, and the madness seemed a type of utopia. In thought, in word, and in location before everyone started living the dream; I had become a child of lust, a student of madness, and I secluded myself in actual darkness, blinds closed, lights out, beneath layers of black; was I a prisoner or an emperor but there was freedom, the monsters in the black didn’t frighten me it were those in the light. I discovered “her” but it was more like she discovered me for I was lost and with her image, her voice, and I swear I could feel her heart; I may have been in darkness but I could see where I was going… can you blame me for wanting to follow.

All I had was that glow and that was enough, long before there was nothing I had given up everything, given up everything that hadn’t been stolen; how people kill for a glow now. It was darkness that made me along with everyone else appreciate the light, but the only light there is now is that of the fires of Hell.

There were those who worshipped the false images of Christ, the carved stones of long forgotten gods, and those that bowed to no image at all; as for me I had my goddess, my love. I needed no pretender because I could see the object of my devotion right on the computer screen, the real her, her beauty, and my sin.

I bowed to no man… willingly, dare I call The Abomination a man; as for Christ I never truly believed and even if I had it seems so called scared texts and images of such a savior seemed to conflict. Stone is one resource that is still plentiful and still people carve, build, and create their savior, for the saints, prophets, and gods have long since been destroyed in their failure. What god would dare face what has become of the human race and still others have found new religions be it for a night or only a second more of life.

Before my goddess was a tease, to think a bra strap was enough, that bra strap stripped away some of my darker inclinations for a time. I remember her in her pink and green bikini, the picture of her blowing a kiss, you have to understand wanting so much but it was love that made the smallest motion mean so much to me. How I wanted this beautiful Boricua princess in her pink dress wearing a tiara, or my devil in a blue dress and those sexy platinum stiletto heels.

The world has long since come to realize that no character from a fairytale is coming to save them and as for my goddess… no one girl should have all that power. Yes she proved her power over me well enough; I am a sinner and always, always I came short of her glory.

What of the art that once adorned this world; how blind could one person be, when it came to my love nothing ever compared to her, maybe I just didn’t want it to. Her beauty, her voice, and her dance, true beauty, back when there was time for such things.

In a time before the fires, before the smoke, and before the running there was a different kind of beauty in the world, a beauty she gave back to me, for in the outside world before the fire was a constant rage and pain burning inside me, the smoke, the words, the belches from all, and the running, cardio before it became essential to everyone. I had long since dismissed the world’s beauty but the day I saw her, how I had missed the sun, the stars, and the art known as woman. It was as if I was seeing for the first time, don’t you dare tell me why I should prefer one piece to another; only the viewer can dictate what they find beautiful and that she was.

From all the days from the first to perhaps the ending of the world I see that curly brunette, with sugary sweet brown eyes, and a body that I wanted more than the air I breathed at the time. Listening to her, hearing how she said my name, and how she would sing, had I forgotten music, seems we all had before. Her dancing, every curve and every line, the love she had for the moment, and the moment in itself, even want seemed to be long forsaken for nothing.

Such art could not be destroyed, the sea of electrons flowing above a sea of blood that runs through the streets, yet the fires of past works continue to burn fiercely. Such beauty could not be wiped off the map… yet, I can hear her voice, and there is still movement, and artistry; no one is left to comment, the onetime critics are dead now.

The words, a word, her words, were beautiful and when I think about it, her silence, before a year and a half went by, before words proved futile, and when I believed I had a chance, we all had a chance. To think this was the ugliness I was expecting, I can’t say I didn’t know but really death happens so quickly now and yet she waited.

There were words I was never taught, words I imagined, words that when spoken were meant to be real, words that are still croaked out by the dead, the dying, and the surviving. There was one word though, just one, if it had been spoken, it still amazes me that this one word could have prevented everything, one second and instead years upon years of death because she wanted this, must have, and I can sum up that one word with another; TRUTH.

I knew the truth, from the moment we first met I knew, boy meets girl I knew, and still I listened to her lies, her silence, and finally the truth. It was just the damn time; I wasn’t the first to be tortured and I wouldn’t be the last but one word spoken in a timely manner and yet she laughed, she cried, hell she lived. Now millions die whimpering, moaning, and screaming that one simple word and to die quickly is perhaps the greatest blessing left to us but my heart never received it.

All of her words, every single one I treasured before that one morning but that does not rob me of what I felt for her, even with what has happened. There is only the constant echo now of a world that once lived and the fear of that endless silence which will soon engulf it.

She WAS beautiful, that girl I once imagined and imagine her I did, when others imagined what God was like, I imagined this perfect girl, innocent, sweet, and pure. I suppose the same could be said of Hell, I lived it and unlike any other girl I did not imagine myself rising to meet her but that somehow I could corrupt her and she would walk through the fire with me.

What is it about guilt that drives us to want absolution, maybe I thought she could save me; no I thought she was so high above others, so high that she would not be corrupted by them, she wasn’t just another girl. When other girls dream of well… everything she would say, “cheap teddy bears make me smile”, it was more than the thought that I felt I could “afford” her; it seemed her very nature, her SWEETNESS. I wonder what it was back then that drove men to seek purity after years spent chasing any slut or whore, suddenly a man wants something untouched and maybe I was no different but it was more than her hoped for virginity, again she was so high above everything.

Why did I seek to take all of this away from her, she was by no means weak but even before the world went to Hell, the most innocent would find themselves driven to the madness of this place and maybe I thought that she and I being lost together beat being lost alone. When other girls were busy giving it up, or leaving barely anything to the imagination, she would tease but not the usual teasing, just enough to show an angelic naughtiness, another part of her nature, being so SENSUAL. How I imagined I had any impact on her at all, start her down such a dark road, share with her a taste of my world, and she would never wish to leave it.

She brought such goodness back to my imagination, back when I thought it was all gone; maybe no one imagines the good anymore or it’s just too hard to imagine. As for corruption well she led me to it and as for everyone else we’re all walking down the same road now.

Dreams back then were nothing, luxuries, and truth be told vanity, that’s when I was able to sleep at all; does anyone even remember what a goodnight’s sleep was like? The dreamers of the day are dangerous men… what men are left or the term men loosely defined and dreams are no longer fluffy, good, or incomprehensible, they are easily understood as nightmares.

How often I was told that my dreams meant nothing, they weren’t real, and they would never come true now that can be said about so many more. Dreams were the only thing that kept me sane for so long and now like that sanity, rest, and the thought of death itself there are no luxuries anymore. Perhaps it was vanity to dream of a place where she might care for me, where we could be happy, where she would actually love me; those dreams could have so easily been laid to rest but she allowed me to have them, with her silence.

What makes a monster and what makes a man is in the eye of the beholder; no one is what they once were, even if they still have a human form the world has become more dangerous and if you can believe it people are more dangerous. I didn’t dream of much during the day and even in dreams mankind was not free but when there are no more rules, there are no more dreams, and who can dream now? Nightmares walk the streets, call it fear, want, desire, but to call it good… define good.

A goodnight’s sleep is waking up dead but again only vanity; better to face death with open eyes and make sure it gets done. For some reason though during the day no one dreams of death, I know I didn’t, I only dreamt of her… what a nightmare.

In my fantasies I felt myself losing my mind, hell whatever was left of it and so I found ways to indulge in the world before. I wish I could say they were all constructive but before the transformation of man we were still not much different from… animals, beasts, or the monsters that that now walk amongst men.

The games I would play online, the books I would read, even the music I listened to; I could fantasize an entire life with her. Yes I was crazy but I could lie in bed and just pretend I was talking to her, I was more open, honest, and real because I didn’t have anybody else; if only she had listened to me for real or anybody else. She became my muse, my inspiration, and still I think the beauty that I created perhaps is somewhere but what would be the purpose?

Like other men I had my needs and to be perfectly honest I masturbated to thoughts of her quite often and how I would want to believe that somewhere she would be thinking of me, fingers quite busy. It wouldn’t have surprised me if there was some video of me buck naked on the Internet, before the Internet really was right next door, no longer contained in boxes but right before your eyes. Fear, rage, and madness, before Hell was born I already knew it, I wanted to take her there, and I already had many times in my fantasies.

There are still fantasies but they so very quickly turn into realities; it’s scary to know that it wasn’t just me... it was never just me. With what man has become I think what we once knew, what we once thought, what we once believed was the fantasy, and now we truly know real.

My words could never do her justice but how I did try; talk about a thousand words and I gave her millions, poems, stories, letters, and still I only ever asked for one from her. Never was she more beautiful that when I would imagine her in my words or at least that’s what I once thought and I wanted the world to know.

People once called my poetry a gift and I tossed it away like garbage and only she was able to retrieve it, her beauty giving it back to me and then to say we had nothing in common she took it again and threw it away. I couldn’t contain the words and worlds that were inside me and so I revealed those worlds upon the page and one by one she ended them. Everyday I wrote her knowing full well what my last word would be to her; how many people had that luxury of knowing their last word in love, in madness, or in death… my word was SORRY.

If anyone cared about the way I loved her back then… they still wouldn’t have cared about me but to see her through my eyes, my words, and my heart, if only every girl could be loved as much. To hear her and everyone else, what I was doing wasn’t love it was… this moment, this time, another wasted life, or billions now. The world finally knows now, her name howled and echoed through the streets, her face etched on the faces of the dead, thoughts of her cursing those that are still alive.

I called her love but she is known by so many names nowadays; I gave her words and she gave me nothing while taking everything… from everyone. My words failed and her voice failed and a year and a half later, Welcome To Hell.

She WAS beautiful, at the beginning of the end, there were so many faces asking for the truth but she was that truth, finally. Before guys would talk about her as if she were a slut or a whore, apparently she liked that but now the casual observer was asking for her head on a plate.

With the millions of faces locked inside their homes begging for help she was only one and who was to decide who was worthy of being saved and who would be left to die… to bad it wasn’t me. The truth were those things now crying her name but how many girls had the same name, how many girls had already been found with that name, and how many girls had been killed or turned over with that name. She was the one they wanted and the one they couldn’t get to; how many knew my pain when all I had ever wanted was her heart but those things outside, they wanted everything she had taken from me.

When I first met her I had spoken Shakespeare but others said things such as “hey baby, why don’t you suck on my banana” they became her best friends and I was nothing more than a rapist in her eyes. I suppose watching everyone you ever loved die, running for your life, and the end of what some called civilization changes your perspective even with the endless lust that became very apparent. Would she have fucked whoever came to save her life but she wasn’t even worth that obligatory fuck, maybe if she were dead things might return to normal; things would never be normal again.

The truth was to answer, a year and a half she had to answer and she played and by the time she decided to give an answer well… the questions had changed. She had spent her life being admired and loved and she was still wanted but hated even more than what was eating the living.

I wonder is this how I looked to The Abomination… no wonder he was such a bastard, knowing he was my greatest fear, and enjoying every second of it; seeing her like this same way it was a pleasure I never knew existed. There were things, more things, and people, I only ever knew the people, a few bullies here and there but she knew them all; every single last one wanted her to suffer, to bleed, and to die.

When she had wanted to be speechless she had been, a year and a half of speechlessness but seeing her face now, unable to defend herself, nodding as everything she was came tumbling down; this is fear. The tears streaming down her face, that rage I could feel welling up within her, but that utter helplessness; how I had dreamed to have her body this way. She couldn’t block out the screams that seemed to be coming from everywhere, trying to muffle her own cries to not bring a greater wrath upon herself, but most of all those voices in the darkness of her mind, heart, and soul, there was no escape.

Little more than beasts outside but that is what they were, the reason they existed; they were meant to be feared. She knew what the people would do to her, no one could be trusted, and even if someone came to her aid the final result would always be the same. Why continue to live this way, one day they would as she feared I would come for her but while I had wanted two seconds they would want eternity; a fear of where she would spend eternity but while she was a Christian she feared that they were right, this was all her fault.

I lacked the courage to face my fear and it mastered me, The Abomination, the former world, and the girl I loved mastered me. Her fear could not be conquered but simply endured and when it could no longer be endured all she need do is remember me.

She had been brought to her knees just like I wanted her but Christians were already on their knees only now the ground was covered in muck, in cum, and in blood. Dirty thoughts led to dirty deeds but she stuck with her thoughts for now how dirty she had been, how dirty she could be, and how dirty she would have to be as her time was running out.

Scientists had never gotten close to discovering the true origins of the black muck that now coated the world, why some were turned by it, victims’ veins would bleed it out eventually, and why some like her were left unscathed. Cum, from them, from people, and from those somewhere in between dying in the streets, bathed in it, drinking it, and giving life if they survived that long. By now Heaven had been painted red with all the blood, the everlasting flood as long as someone was left; would anyone know they were the last.

To break a heart, all girls do it, but not all of them enjoy it, not all of them let things progress so far, not all of them do it with a smile on their face and then spit on their victims like she had. She had been a tease, she had revelled in the destruction of another, and if her hands were any indication, what covered them showed she was not yet dirty enough. In a world where money no longer had value and gold ha… gold couldn’t feed you, protect you, or make you feel anything but food could be taken, guns could protect, and was there anything better to them, to mankind, and even to the victims eventually than the feeling of sex.

How I had once crawled for her she would crawl for them, if they even allowed her to live that long; if they see her like I see her, before I dared to look inside. How she had thought I was dirty once, there was no longer any reason to pretend as every breath could now be tainted, contaminated… dirty.

There was nothing left for her at home, it wasn’t even home anymore, just a house and so she walked away from those who loved her; it was not as if anyone would follow her anymore, at least she hoped not. Call it stalking, hunting, or fishing for some, for others advertising, peddling, and selling any and all things human and not; that continued to walk the streets.

The new rules of the road transformed all who walked them, soon you forget about the corpses you step on, from her muttering “sorry” with almost every step to realizing the signs of a fresh feast and those long ago. She listened to the deathly silence that she once gave me, the screaming echoes of victims, the sound of her own name being chanted and almost any other sound was just as terrible imagining what surely could be behind her. When would her shoes finally fall apart, she wore white sneakers, and the plethora of shoes she once thought a luxury were now a necessity but she could not carry them all, two pairs of sneakers and a few pairs of her sexier shoes… just in case.

No one walked the road unless they wanted something; if that something was death one would surely have no problem finding it but there were things much worst than death and usually those things would keep you alive. Food, shelter, weapons, and always other survivors; yes survivors, especially attractive young females that walked alone. How badly did one want to live, a pair of platinum stiletto heels, a hot body, and the will could save a girl depending upon those she found, if anything of humanity still lived within them.

They would follow, not just because she was beautiful, not just because she was food, not just because she was the reason, they would follow her for life itself. She could stop but what then, everywhere was death, every moment was death, every step… death.

She IS beautiful… a whole new world she is wandering in, a whole new life, and a whole new night; how many nights has she seen since she started walking. How the people wander around her, maybe they had once been like her, maybe they had once been like me; it would explain their confusion, their sadness, and the madness that consumed them.

It’s been awhile since she has seen people as she walks into what could be called a town, to wear too much would suggest she’s been infected, too little and she’s in business, so only a green t-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers, along with her backpack. For just a cup of water, what must she pay, she settles for a few drops on her tongue after lifting up her shirt for a minute; a man tries desperately to talk her into more water, food, and his bed for the night. Pyres light up the night sky, much greater than the small barrels and the candles, her face hidden in the darkness but still a few notice her.

The man begins to follow after seeing her remarkable breasts; he catches sight of her face in the light for mere seconds before nodding to others and they wonder as they wander, after her. A woman breathes heavily after being raped, the blood flowing under her black dress and down her thighs cries at first but somehow she catches sight of the girl and those tears continued to fall despite her growing rage. There are others, possibly infected but like dogs they turn to the girl, there is something about her, there was always something about her.

How she longs to see the sun again but that would just make it obvious, who she is, what she has done but she can’t run; she can’t let on. She wandered into a building hoping that this will buy time, again no one notices her face at first but only her body, like those she knew in another life but how can she hide now.

It was never like this before, never so dirty but being on stage was something she knew quite well and her body is certainly built for it as she took off her shirt and began to dance. Why did I see her before, her own ego, maybe she wanted to make some money, maybe it was just to be noticed, she had no pride left, men could still buy her drinks for so much more along with the scraps of meat like animals that were thrown on stage and for once she wanted no one to notice her.

I had never forgotten her, how I have tried so hard, but could she forget me as the music played; she barely missed the hands that groped at her. Could she forget about those eyes that had seen her face and if they knew she would not survive the night. What she couldn’t forget was the drink that was splashed on her, fingers tracing the watery droplets, tasting what little had touched her lips, wanting if anything to beg for more.

Where once I had placed her upon a pedestal this is what she had been reduced to, dancing on stage for a bunch of men whose single joy for the moment would be to fuck her senseless, easy pickings for those outside. With all the suffering that awaited the living, watching others suffer was still a happy feeling; I bet I had made her quite happy. As she savored the taste their eyes journeyed from her supple waist, those darling breasts of hers to her face.

Yes she was quite dirty now, disgusting, and sickening and when they got finished with her, every inch of skin covered with what she would bleed out and how they would come on, they would still see her for what she was. Until she was no longer the center of attention, they all could see the turning, the sickness, and the end of themselves.

What was she running from, I had been the monster she feared once but it had been me running from her and now who chased her? First she thought it had been the people, then they were history, but it was the present that was beginning to catch up to her and she could see the future.

That she even got out of the building was a miracle, the streets were no better as she swung her top in desperation to keeps the hands, the claws, and every other appendage from grabbing her. It was the madness that she had brought on, boys chased girls for many different reasons, but why she was wanted; I could never have her then and she could not let anyone have her now. Not even the infection was good enough, as if she could outrun it but that she was as those around her fell and yet this did not halt their pursuit until there were others but how many others remained.

She could hear their words at first, “bitch”, “slut”, and “whore” which died in their turning or their screaming; does she pray for the silence of death or the words of the mob, how she had come to hate the sound of her own name. There was nothing holding them back now, no more words, lies, or her laughter at what she had done only the roar that was too much for any to endure and yet there was a beat. Not her footsteps on the street, the fists pounding flesh, or what the monsters wanted most of all… there was her heartbeat, the simple proof that she had a heart at all.

The steps were her last resort, running up to a Heaven I had believed she’d fallen from when we first met; she buried herself in the corpses of other angels, covered head to toe in blood. The monsters were coming around the corner, they would pass the steps into the alley, soon she might not have to hide anymore; she might be just another girl, just another corpse.

It wasn’t hers, the blood, the time, or even her own life; if anything death is the moment we become ourselves, the problem is you have to die. Dying is a process that begins long before a stolen breath; much like love it would not be so easy.

As she crawled out of the mound of corpses she looked much like any other victim of the plague; so many deaths had been her life, this is how it all began. Those things had passed right by her, it had not been her time to die though it was happening little by little; she wondered is that how those others felt, how the living felt, and even how I had felt the first time I ever laid eyes on her. As for her own life, that didn’t exist anymore for anyone; what she had once been… she did not wish to die as but there was nothing she could do to make this right yet she might die trying.

As my love for her, dying begins with a look, sad as it is to say attraction, desire, and lust, murders, accidents, even suicide, it is the fear of death and the want of life, from the moment of birth a life begins to countdown. I could consider myself lucky for never having much of a life but she had loved and lost but that does not stop death; such a fool’s errand. Then it comes and you imagine a frightening second but it has been happening all your life; worst than I thought, a year and half, try twenty something years waiting and then it finds me… love or this dying world take your pick.

The moment I became me and the moment she became well… what she already was, just a girl, wanted, and still quite loved which is perhaps the reason she is still alive. It was love that was bringing them back, love that kept some alive, and my love for her that somehow kept her so damn beautiful.

Copyright © 2011, Will A. Bradford Jr. All rights reserved.