"Hey do you wanna make love?"
She stops the old lady in the middle of the street and asks.
The old lady is scared, obviously. Not only because of the presence of this stunningly beautiful teenage girl, but more importantly, the words that jump out of her lips, the juicy red lips.
"Do - You- Wanna- Make- Love- To - ME?"
The old lady just went to a grocery store at the corner of the street. She was thinking to make some squash soup for today's dinner. She loves the grocery store at the corner of the street though she can never really remember its name. She also got a little bag of cherry tomatoes. It was on sale. "Today's special! Juicy Cherry tomatoes! Half price!"-- A big plastic sign was put on the wooden basket where the tomatoes were placed.
"Excuse me--???"
The old lady asks, entirely baffled. She was just thinking about her cherry tomatoes.
"DO - YOU- WANNA- MAKE- LOVE- TO - ME?"
Teenage girl repeats, slowly, clearly, word by word. She stares at the old lady who seems to be shocked as if the words are bullets. Yes. For the old lady, they are, and these bullets make her dizzy.
"Oh my... Are you alright?"
The old lady believes that this teenage girl is totally insane, and her abrupt presence absurdly disrupts the old lady’s fulfilment from her grocery shopping. Oh she could be such a lovely granddaughter. But what the hell she's talking about? She thought to herself. Is this some sort of joke? Does she need money or something? IS she…too? or...Jesus...how can she tell… Oh and look at her eyes... She looks at the girl into the eyes and discovers that there is no sigh of aliveness. The eyes are too beautiful to be real as human eyes but ornaments.
"You think I'm mad? Don't you?"
She speaks, calmly.
"You are just like one of the human beings. Withering, and afraid of embracing the unexpected because you think that it is abnormal that a teenage girl stopping an old lady and asking her if she wants to have sex with her. Right?"
The old lady remains silent and has no clue how to react. This is odd, indeed, for her, especially as a being a private school teacher for 40 years before her retirement, and as a widow who is, frankly speaking, very lonely after her partner past away 11 years ago. However, she is used to the sadness. She wasn’t even happy when her violent alcoholic partner was alive. She always dreams of killing her then committing suicide herself after they have sex. Even though she knew that they love each other, dearly. However the retrospect of her violent relationship was fairly well compensated by the half-priced cherry tomatoes and the appetite for a bowl of aromatic squash soup.
Therefore, at that particular moment, she wants to leave. She doesn’t want to deal with this unspeakable strangeness and distraction that is almost brutal for her, on her way home thinking of her tomatoes and squash soup in such a lovely Saturday afternoon. “The modern kids are insane.” she thinks.
"I’m sorry kid, I don’t know what you are talking…ab…”
The old lady falls down while the plastic bags hit on the ground. The narrow alley way then is soon full of rolling juicy cherry tomatoes, and of course their splashed corpses.
Red.
Little juicy red drops in the thin air and vapours under the sunlight. The fishy smell of a stream of ageing redness makes me feel sick. I want to run away, but I could not resist placing myself into this bloody red picture. As if the entire world is filtered through a thick red lens. The red vision makes me stoned, unable to move, and suddenly it reminds me of how Plato’s Socrates describes reason may be overwhelmed by an unworthy desire, which drives the self to become angry with a part of its nature. The fact that Plato tries to illustrate how one may yield, even if reluctantly, to repulsive attraction, and this repulsive attraction now transforms into an appetite for sights of degradation and pain and mutilation. I don’t know if I yield or desire such vision, but at this moment, I hear a lullaby in my head. I never knew that this melody could become overwhelmingly beautiful, so beautiful that it makes me cry.
Blood erupts like a roaring volcano.
Everything turns into a slow-motion of bright scarlet.
The old lady didn’t feel a thing while the young teenage girl stabbed the knife into her throat. She was fast enough, and it was such a sophisticated, sharp knife.
It wasn’t the first time for her to do such thing. At that moment there was no sympathy. She has no sympathy to the human beings she kills. Killing is better than hurting, she believes, and death is not the final destination. She wonders whether she’s from Mercury, the messenger who helps people travel from one side of the world to its double. Death is the entrance to the parallel space far away from the living one.
What is the point? What is the point of living in the same world for such a long time with endless tristesse? And why killing somebody is considered as outrageously immoral anyway if their lives are more miserable than death itself?
Is death miserable?
She doesn’t know.
But when she kills, she hears music; and whenever she hears this melody, she has to kill.
For the beauty of it
driving by both of her desire and despair.