Background: This note may expose crazy and wild ideas, one that may normally come from a crazy person. But I would like to assert that I am not disturbed, nor am I a nut job. This is not me talking, rather, it is me writing. Among all I can say this is not yet my darkest and grimmest work of all. Suddenly I was struck with such an inspiration; An inspiration I find no words adequate to describe. All I know is I feel like the apostles during that one Pentecost Sunday when the spirit gave them that crazy ability to speak in different tongues, as I am writing in a different persona. A disturbed persona is not tantamount to a disturbed writer.
She lives by the codename of Isabella. And no, contrary to your judgmental belief, this girl is not me. No pathetic relevance at all to my second name. Everyone is named Isabella. The deprived pale girl from Twilight was Isabella. Lizzie McGuire’s crazy twin was Isabella. The exorcised girl from The Devil Inside was named Isabella. Every fictional Russian and or Italian character lives by the default name of Isabella. So who cares, really? Isabella is as default and helpless as I could get. Let’s name her Isabella.
She lived an average life. Or not so average. Close to perfection, actually. The only problem she ever lived to face was that her hair always curled, and people often mistook that lack of sulfur in her hair as her laziness to exert ample effort to comb or brush it. Apart from that though, no one ever described her aesthetics to her face, horribly or on any negative note whatsoever. She was quite a doll. She had good education, taking home grades of a nerd’s standards. But shit happened. Oh, wait. I mean, shit happens. No past tense allowed, because shit is perpetual. No one has it perfectly. And no, this shit isn’t anything horrid as an Earthquake, nothing like a fire, and a far cry from a car accident.
But she did wish it were an Earthquake, so she would have no world left to wake up to every morning. Or perhaps a fire, so all that agony would’ve just burned down with her.
I will not say what happened to Isabella as it is too aberrant for me to share in public without being judged by your scandalous issue-fabricating minds, my dear readers, if there are any. All I know is there was blood. There was vengeance---vengeance rooted from an angry vindictive heart. There were cigarettes. Plenty cigarettes. Lots and lots of cigarettes. And a gun. And a corpse of a guy--kind of fat, teeth crooked as a hillbilly who was foreign to the concept of braces, but had braces nevertheless. The corpse of a poor soul not much blessed with height, probably the spawn of the devil. Wait, the spawn is an understatement. He is, in fact, the devil himself. A devil hungry for virgins, to enlighten you much more. He’d slaughter their consciousness with his venom which came in a bucket. A bucket that had six bottles inside. An enticing venom, masked as social acceptance for the much blinded people of generation X onwards. He had aids. Or at least Isabella wished he had aids, you know, to let nature take his life, effortlessly. But at least now, he’s just a corpse.
How do you kill a devil?
Whose was the blood? Was it Isabella’s?
You know what, it doesn’t really matter, for she was dead inside. And the most abhorring part is how that crooked-tooth devil manages to go through life without a single drop of guilt. Oh wait, why is she shocked? He’s the devil, devils don’t have guilt. Devils are heartless demons. How much more redundant could I get?
And as Isabella’s disturbing story must be put on hiatus for now, do expect more. And do expect that people lie. People lie in blog disclaimers. Perhaps this story is real. Perhaps they just want it to be real. Perhaps it’s a foreshadowing of your life. Perhaps it represents a phase in everyone’s life. Everyone has been deceived at some point in their bittersweet lives. I shall gamble my soul to you, in a bet that with all encrypted honesty, if you actually think deep enough you’d find yourself in Isabella. We’ve all seen the devil at some point of our lives. Isabella, on the other hand, is certain of his character. She lives everyday knowing who he is. She knows who the devil is. She is left with no option but to see him everyday.
And much as I would want to leave this post hanging in the most mysterious and enigmatic way as your bothered minds could handle, I can’t, as most people who actually read this are judgmental. You’d do your best to connect the dots, connect the imaginary dots, thinking you know everything, thinking you know more about me than I’d choose to share. But if you insist to keep that mindset, thinking that this clandestine story of a bothered Isabella pertains to something deeper, I commend you for your wild imagination. J
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