I am not religious at all, never even read the Bible. But the story of Judas and Jesus just intrigues me so much.

Think about it:

You personally know someone who is more or less divine, maybe you consider them a friend, a leader or a confidant, just someone who is supposed to know it all. You follow them.

Then something changes one day. You don't know what exactly. Maybe you were blinded by greed for a moment, or something terrible possessed. All you know is that doubt has set in and you'll betray them.

Your friend tells you and bunch of other people they know that they'll be betrayed. What do you feel? Guilty, terrified, anxious?

You betray them, with an imitate gesture, a kiss of all things. Address them as someone above you, and it's gets them caught.

It's come to light that your friend is going to die as result of your betrayal. You might feel it all sink it, try to repent your greed and change what has happened, but you can't.

You take your own life.

It doesn't help that I'm a sucker for betrayal stories, and I just think Judas is very interesting.

I took a walk at night.

I turned my music off

This time

And noticed.

The birds playing their game of tag in

the trees

silhouetted black against the darkening blue sky.

Noticed

the canvas of watercolor painted by the sun as it sank beneath the horizon.

Noticed

the amplified echoes of children playing

as they held onto the last remnants of the day

of their childhood

before they’re handed access to everything in the world and it all

changes.

Will they miss this?

Will they even know?

If they look up at night, they will see stars.

Will they?

If they listen, they'll hear the wind.

Will they?

Will it even be here?

Will they?

Our great Father in Heav'n,

We are imperfect men.

Save us each waking breath

From the power of sin.

As your Son taught to pray,

Lead us not to the tempter;

But if tempt us he may,

Save us by royal scepter.

By that rod, by that staff,

Strike the serpent of old;

For we are but weak sheep

In your eternal fold.

If the tempter attacks,

With patience doing right

Let us count it all joy,

For Christ’s burden is light.

May the blaze ever grow

And dross float ever higher,

So the rot burns away

And our gold shines like fire,

A great light for the showing,

Bright and not to be hid.

To our Savior, th’unknowing

By our works may we bid.

Searing flames lapped

at her uncovered skin

her hair alight

the colors painting

an ethereal image

one of beauty

that didn't match her pain.

Under the dense light

of the moon

she did not scream

as her mind, body, and soul

were gently ignited

against her will.

The townsfolk gathered

their pitchforks raised high

their victorious shouts

permeating the air

Rocks were thrown

chipping away at

all she had left

but she would not give them

the satisfaction

of seeing her suffer.

The flames ate away at her

until there was nothing left

but the haunted soul

that would remain anguished

in those woods

forever

Unnerved under the focused attention of strange eyes a tiny, tinny bell begins tinka-tink-tinkling somewhere deep in the folds of Leslie's brain, a bell so barely audible at first tinkle that it’s unwitting host continues her oblivious sleep, yet the teensy bell persists, slowly at first, though conscientiously, it’s angst and volume increasing as her nap continues, touching on nerves as it crescendos, releasing un-ignorable cortisols and adrenalines while prying it’s irksome self into her slumbering psyche.

Believe it. This hellish little bell is fucking relentless in its pursuit of duty.

Humans, no matter whose image we reflect, are biologically constructed. We are animals. Being at the top of the predatory chain does not change this fact, and being animals we are subjected to animalistic instincts, evolutionary warning signals which lie forever at rest within us, patiently awaiting their moments for usefulness. Unbeknownst to the napping Leslie one of these has awakened within her.

The year is 2041. Instincts no longer meeting her needs Leslie, like most women, has willfully glossed them over in favor of the pseudo-sciences of her day, and the pseudo-religions, and to her trust in civil obedience, but those primitive instincts have not abandoned her. Though tamped down and restrained there she has in no way eliminated them. The instincts are still alive, waiting as patiently as sentinels in the ignored solitudes of her loneliest outposts, hopeful for a moment to rise up and shine, heralding some unforeseen danger. For instance, when and if she might be alone and there comes that proverbial “bump in the night.” That time when Leslie’s better subconscious tells her it is only the wind, but something even further down inside the gray matter than that "better subconsciousness" whispers that, "No. That‘s not right… there is no wind,” until she is forced to test with a wetted finger and conclude that the air is indeed still. The instinct for survival is that warning voice she never wants to hear, the one which sparks that very first paralyzing, electrical tinge of terror down her spine as she walks unawares into the spider’s web, and that halts her breath even as it heightens her sensory perceptions. Were she a nineteenth-century man Leslie might have labeled this instinct the “Voice of God,” as it is the voice which emanates directly from some subconscious will that every living being must possess in order to perpetuate it’s own life.

Yes, Leslie sleeps, but it does not. In fact, the instinct is wide-awake now, having taken on the unlikely form of the annoying little bell. Not only is the instinct awake, it is becoming anxious. Being asleep, Leslie cannot be sure what it is happening inside her, though her eyeballs begin to follow the frenetic gyrations of the instinct, joggling crazily behind her closed lids as her brow begins to tic, and her fingers to spasm. The instinct knows it must somehow manifest itself, and it must do so quickly so that Leslie has time to avoid the danger that has sparked the instinct to industriousness. Therefore it invades her peaceful slumber in the form of an evil too horrible to be ignored, so that her dream is now a nightmare which she must awaken from. And so the tiny bell becomes a claxon inside her, creating chaos where restful order is desired, so that Leslie’s muscles subconsciously tense, her lungs expand in preparation of crying out, her eyes flare open and she is unpreparedly thrust into the wide awake, with the tinny-tiny bell having fallen as silent to her as though it never, ever was.

Herein, however, lies the problem with instinct, and the reason Leslie has eschewed it. Instinct cannot communicate forward from this vulnerable point. Leslie has awakened, but to what end? Seeing no immediate threat, her muscles relax. After what must have been a great while she finally exhales. “Ahhh… it was only a dream.”

But was it?

There is a moment as she gathers herself, checking that her surroundings appear as they should be. The train continues rocking beneath her, it's steel wheels clacking in time. Rural scenes still flash past the windows. A woman somewhere sneezes. Leslie’s bladder aches. she assumes this is the reason she has awakened, but before she can so much as think to rise she notices the man. He is looking at her from the seat opposite hers. Her tinted glasses have not revealed to the man that she is awake, nor that she is also looking at him. Duped by her camouflage neither of them are shamed as they should be, so his gaze does not cut away when her eyes settle on his. Leslie is relieved that the man’s expression portends no evil, rather his is a wistful gaze, still she does not like men, nor trust them, though she has admittedly known very few. Those men she had met seemed alright enough, she supposed, but she has been taught not to trust, and her teachers must know.

Leslie is a good girl… and was a good student all the way up.

The man is under double guard, as all men are. His guards are Amazon-like in their size and strength. Their prisoner wears the loose fitting, striped clothing of man. His legs are shackled at the ankle, his wrists cuffed to a chain about his waist. This one must be particularly dangerous, Leslie assumes. He must be, though she sees no indicator of how so, other than his eyes, which are still fastened upon her. She is becoming uncomfortable from them, somehow diminished, which is odd since he is the one who is bound. Shouldn’t it be he who feels weak? She should say something to the guards, so that they might force him to avert his eyes. Who does he think he is anyway, Leslie wonders, to stare at her as though she is the animal in the zoo, and not him?

Still, there is nothing malicious in his expression. It is as though he is lost in thought, reminiscing about some happier day, and it is only an accident that his eyes have trained themselves upon her as he does so. It is almost as though he is looking through her, rather than at her. She begins to pity his forlorn look, and his stripes and chains, but the sympathy she feels is short-lived, as it is quickly followed by that rising within her of that same frenetic energy which woke her from her nap, and which has set her once more upon pins and needles... tinka-linka-link.

“Careful, Leslie!” She reminds herself. “This is no lost puppy. This is a man!“ A pang of guilt flogs at her weakness. “He is the cause of all that is bad. The teachers all said so. Surely he deserves those stripes and chains!”

She wonders what horrible things this particular one has done to deserve enslavement, but then, she needn’t wonder. He is a man. It is enough. He would rape and kill, and lie and cheat for money or power given the chance. They all do. They always have. The books all say so.

Every man would be dead now if it could be managed, but it cannot. It has been discovered, like it or not, that some men are necessary, that some are needed to do those things that women will not, as it was found that even the strongest women, those women hand-picked for their size and strength and offered great reward for their service, those women still neither can nor will do the hardest, dirtiest work that is necessary to keep civilization from falling to disrepair. The women simply refuse, so some men must be kept, though the most rugged have long since been weeded out of society for safety’s sake, and only the softer, gentler ones tolerated. Yet, as will invariably happen with dogs and men, some of the stronger types have escaped into the swamps where they live like rats, hidden away from civilization.

But this one appears neither soft, nor gentle. Leslie has never seen his like. Barbarity is undoubtedly his crime. She wonders how one like him is ever caught? What could have lured him from the swamps, and into those chains? Rumor is that the men in the swamps have women, captured women. Could anything be more horrible, Leslie wondered, than a life in the swamps, subjugated by men? The thought brought a shudder. There was even unfathomable talk of women leaving the sanctuary of Orlando willingly, of their own volition, walking away into the wilds to never be seen again. Where could such an inclination possibly originate? How could anyone be so foolish? It angered Leslie to think that any woman could be so naive, so ungrateful. After all that had been done to rid civilization of man how could any woman with half a brain willingly leave their new and improved world to help re-propagate the patriarchy out in the wilds? Certainly, no educated woman would. As far as Leslie was concerned, she wished they’d just let the bastards die, already. Men frightened her. Especially this one, but as with any horrible, detestable thing she found her eyes unwilling to withdraw from it.

Yet this one also appeared immensely sad, didn’t he? And well he should, what with the future he faced. She supposed he was being taken for sperm harvesting first, and then he would be forced into labor, slaving in those unenviable jobs outside of the HeR Realm; plumbing, farming, roadwork, mining, rail maintenance… those jobs no self-respecting woman would ever be caught dead doing, no matter what pay was offered. The thought of doing such work made her grateful again for HeR! HeR was a godsend; employing all women, and treating every single one respectfully, with no real output required of any of them other than insuring equity, which though impossible was never-the-less an intriguing game to play.

Sperm harvesting? Leslie sometimes wished she had majored in bio-mechanics at University. She wondered how it was done, what sort of machine was used? And if not a machine, then what? Surely no self respecting woman was expected to coax it out? This one’s sperm would undoubtedly bring top dollar, as even from his sitting position the appeal of his stature was obvious to Leslie. He would tower over her if standing. This one even dwarfed the Amazon-like guards sitting at his sides. Leslie was unnerved by the realization that, should the man take a violent turn, even being chained the two guards would stand little chance against him. But then, that’s why the guards were armed, wasn’t it? To ensure no such thing would happen? Still, the prospect was frightening.

Though the man looked sad his face appeared strong, his features cut clean and his weathered hands veined with confidence and competence. Both his hands and face were unlike any of those she had ever encountered in Orlando. The one’s she’d seen were soft men, pretty men, making them singularly unattractive to Leslie, validating her choice of women for partners. The Orlando men reinforced her belief that men were just poor imitations of women anyways, and suited no purposes other than their muscular strength and their sperm… until this one. This one seemed different. This one looked capable… even dangerous. That thought stirred another instinct awake, another bell, heightening Leslie’s awareness and stimulating her pulse, though this survival instinct somehow felt different than the other, and clamored in different spots within her.

God, she needed to pee! But Leslie hesitated to get up with him watching her the way he was. What made him do that, anyway? She should say something to the guards, but what would she say? “Your man is looking at me?” Shit, she was admittedly as afraid of the guards as she was of the man. More-so really, as she had seen firsthand what the Orlando Guard were capable of. Could anything, Leslie wondered, be scarier than a large, testosterone infused woman with a taser and an attitude?

Regardless, she must go, and soon. But as she stood and started down the aisle the strangest thing happened. Leslie forgot how to walk. Or at least, while she napped her gait had somehow changed itself unbeknownst to her. She found her weight pushing itself onto the balls of her feet, which coerced an unbidden roll to her hips which, however embarrassing, once employed she was powerless to undo. She wondered if anyone noticed. She longed to look back, to see if the man was looking on, or if the knowing guards were smirking, but she defeated the urge and hurried along the best that she was able to under the awkwardly trying circumstances.

And the walk back from the restroom held more, even greater horrors. The more conscious of her gait she became, the more it changed. She was surprised to find her diaphragm sucked tight, and her shoulders peeled back so that her chest was thrust brazenly, humiliatingly forward. There was an agent checking tickets in the aisle, forcing Leslie to squeeze herself around the uniformed woman in order to get back to her seat, which was where she was when the train lurched slightly, tilting the agent into her and knocking Leslie into the astonished prisoner’s lap. Mortified, Leslie clawed to get up, but the agent was still there, blocking her path. Leslie fell back onto the prisoner, her bottom landing solidly upon muscle-hardened thighs which proved more than adequate to support her weight, solid enough in fact to jolt a panic through her. Forgetting that his hands were fastened to his sides she assumed the ones she felt grabbing at her were his, so she fought them. A desperate sound escaped her as she slapped uselessly at those unseen hands which were finally and gratefully able to catch her up, and to push her onward in the direction of her seat where Leslie kept her eyes lowered away from her humility, though it was unnecessary, as she was still wearing the dark glasses.

She wanted to look up at the man, but could not bring herself to. She wanted to read his face. Was he laughing at her? But she could not bring herself to because she could not stop thinking about how his lap had felt underneath her, how her softness had molded naturally and comfortably around his hardness, and how she had not been able to pull herself away from it. Had it been a lack of strength which held her there, or a lack of will? It had been as though something inside her longed to be where it was, and so had inadvertently devised a devious plan to place itself there, and which had then desired more time there once it’s plan had played out. This evil thought flushed Leslie’s cheeks, and was why she could not look the man’s way. It was just the sort of thought that got a woman exiled from Orlando, wasn’t it?

But she had to look, didn’t she? She could not stop wondering if he was looking at her, if he had felt what she’d felt… she didn’t know what to call it… a connection? Behind the dark lenses her eyes flickered only for the briefest second, just long enough for her to see that the man was still looking at her. Unmindfully, her posture stiffened and her legs crossed as she considered what that meant. If he was staring at her after what had happened then it was no longer mindless staring, was it? It was intentional, brash even. Her eyes flickered again, holding there longer this time. He was still looking.

Their eyes met. Even through the glasses they met. When they did, her hand surprised her by reaching up to her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “Whatever could have prompted that?” she wondered, her eyes averting for a moment before returning to his, suddenly afraid of losing them. They were desperate, his eyes. She could see the desperation in them... and the hunger. Yes, she could see that in them too, and in his body, the way the calloused hands manacled to his waist kneaded nervously at his thighs. The recollected hardness she’d accidentally discovered in those thighs started her chest to pounding, and her ears to pulsing. She could not look away now or else she might lose those memories and discoveries forever, and she did not want them lost.

This was ridiculous! Unable to meet his gaze any longer her eyes closed away from his only to allow her mind’s eye to take over, showing her what her sensory eyes could not, displaying for her the calloused hands in a different fashion; kneading her thighs now instead of his own, squeezing them almost to the point of pain before slowly releasing them, and then squeezing again before sliding down toward her knees, easing them slightly apart before sliding back up again slowly and ever closer to her, his thumbs on their insides squeezing, pushing upwards until they nearly, nearly touched her there… and always, always firmly squeezing.

Her eyes flared open at her audible moan.

Jesus Christ! What was the fucking matter with her? Leslie forced a breath, though her chest still pounded and her ears still hammered. She looked again, but this time it was his eyes that were closed. Leslie wondered what he was thinking, and if he was thinking of her as she’d been thinking of him? She noticed his hands, lying still now on his thighs, no longer kneading them. And she noticed that the stripes across his lap were stretched tight, and she was thankful for the dark glasses as she looked, and breathed, and pounded, so that no one could see her and know.

The train’s breaks squealed. The car lurched itself to a stop as a feminine voice oozed directions, always feminine. Her stop? But how could it? Hadn’t she just boarded?

She did not want to disembark. Instead she looked at the man who was looking at her. The desperation was still there, clinging to her from his eyes, and the hunger. And her heart still pounded her breast, and her ears still thundered, and the tiny-tinny bell was back as she rose, anxiously clamoring for attention as she and it watched the man slide from his seat to the aisle’s floor, catching himself there on a single knee, his eyes fixed on hers filled with noble purpose as he willingly submitted himself before her.

It was upon her own weakened knees that Leslie stepped down from the car. There was no longer thought of posture, nor gate. There was only emptiness. The train eased slowly forward before shooting ahead with a vastly unexpected speed and was gone, but for a reverberative clack issuing up from the rail’s steel.

Leslie felt no satisfaction that he and it were gone, and no joy in being home.

It was three blocks to the apartment she and Morgan shared, though it suddenly seemed much further away from the station than it ever had before. Theirs was an apartment just like everyone else’s, the same floor plan, with the same single bedroom and the same types of appliances. There was no need in the realm that was Orlando for larger apartments, as only those women in power could afford in vitro, and neither she nor Morgan wielded any power yet, though both worked dutifully for HeR, which of course was the power in Orlando. And while an Orlando man might theoretically have a baby, it was still impossible for two Orlando women to conceive, or two women anywhere for that matter. And for the first time ever Leslie felt a desire to conceive. More than a desire actually; a need. Before it was too late. A need which bordered on rashness; to feel a child grow within her, to hear its cry, and to suckle it. Her body literally tingled at the thought of it.

Across the tracks lay the swamplands, dark and foreboding. She had ever feared the swamps and those who inhabited them. It was a learned fear, taught since her youth, back when she’d been separated from her own parents and placed in HeR’s care, as all young girls must be at the same age when the boys are either “changed” or enslaved.

Leslie began her unwilling trek to the apartment which she, for some reason, was thinking of as “the apartment,” rather than as “her apartment,” or as “their apartment.” Today was Thursday. Morgan would be making her pasta. Leslie felt revulsion at the thought of the apartment, and at the thought of Thursday Pasta, and even at the thought of Morgan, though she did love Morgan. Really, she did. She loved Morgan very much! She only wished she were in love with Morgan, or with any other woman for that matter. Morgan had never made Leslie’s heart beat like the man on the train had, nor had Tracey before Morgan, nor Kim before Tracey. It was sad that a woman had never made Leslie feel that, but it was also made obvious to her today that one never could.

The swamp was right over there, only the train tracks and a small field of grass away. She could feel it watching her, the swamp, with eyes that made her uncomfortable, just as the man on the train’s had. Leslie was dressed for work, not the swamps, but if there was no one over there awaiting her then she would not survive anyways, would she? Leslie turned away from familiarity then, away from Thursday Pasta and, in answer to the tinkling bell inside her towards that which was different. Leslie veered slightly across the tracks, hurrying over the grassy area towards the tree line, afraid of her fear, afraid that it might stop her.

Leslie ran. She ran with the prescience that somewhere in those shadows a man awaited her, a man not unlike the one from the train, a strong man who would walk beside her, submitting himself to her if she would submit in kind. A man who would love her and hers, and protect them, offering them comfort and hope. A man unlike the ones she had been taught to fear.

And as Leslie ran the tinkling bell in the folds of her mind ceased it’s ringing, it‘s warnings no longer necessary, for up ahead the shadowy unknown tolled out to her a clearer premonition, one resounding with the safeties and comforts of Divine destiny.

Believe it. Leslie ran.

I had smiled, in that instant.

I shouldn't if I want to live but the judge doesn't matter anymore

he never would, because if I go down so does he

with all the sunshine I've seen I haven't seen enough darkness

I'm supposed to answer the question

I was supposed to then

but for the love of the devil I never will

I'd snapped cursed him to death literally though

he'd smiled that wicked smile

I'm just tired of hiding the darkness, which has always been more than half of me

I pull on the ropes that hold me here a fatal mistake

he asks again, I don't reply I don't need to they already know what I am

who I am

although not why or how I am

we are a bad thing to the mortal world

they don't care about how many children's lives I've saved

just about the dark side of me

but they remember and they wont save the light that's left

actually they'll burn it away with the darkness

finally they give up, the fire is already set

Witch! witch! witch! witch! a chant in their mouths, but much deeper, in their souls

i smile in confirmation my gruesome smile

then I'm shoved onto the stake, pushed to the fire

they wait, to hear me cry for mercy, death is worse than burning though for me

I've sworn many things to the devil

laughed in so many villains faces, been to so many funerals

funerals that I caused, villains I made and shaped myself, the devil that I've become

death isn't enough to save me

I'm set on fire, so I laugh, because I'm now ready to walk away

from all the sorrow and pain I've felt and caused

so much, I laugh as the ropes smolder away

one fatal flaw. every medicine I've given is rotting in the blood

a curse formed by something worse than the devil himself

so I walk away, out of the fire

i stumble and fall, my powers are gone

everything is gone, but me

and the painful memories from before

death, I want to chose death over this

I throw myself back into the fire

Disclaimer: Please note that I am following the prompt here and pushing the tasteless envelope. Shallowgenepool neither subscribes to this kinda bullshit nor tolerates it. You'd have to watch FOX News for that level of ignorant, stupid, sincerity.

With dread, I look out at the audience to find they aren't laughing. They're greeting my jokes with the same amount of enthusiasm as a hooker greets micro-dicked client number fifty at a one-night NRA convention. If I can't get them laughing soon, things will turn uglier than a cancerous growth on a pigs butt. Really, ducking hostilely thrown watered down $20 Long Island iced teas isn't the way I wanted to end the night.

Inner Monologue: "Fuck! A necrophiliac has a better chance of making a corpse cum than I do of making the audience laugh with this new material. Time to switch gears. It's that or give up the new Porsche, the luxury condo, and the Norwegian, double jointed, sexually adventurous supermodel that's warming my bed. Fuck it. I'll probably go straight to hell for this, but here goes nothing."

To the audience: "I just don't understand what is wrong with people these days. Remember the good old days when it was okay to make fun of those different or less fortunate than ourselves? Well frankly, I'm sick of having to be sensitive to the plight of others. Admit it, this new kinder, gentler society is fucking boring!

So, I say we should make the weak and unfortunate toughen up by our brutal, but hilarious criticisms. For example, let's go back to picking on the fat kid at school. Nothing is funnier than squealing like a pig at the size XXXXL Sears Husky brand jeans wearing porker in the lunchroom. After all, they're an easy target and humiliating them can make school lunchtime fun! If they don't want to be picked on as they're oozing their way towards their lonely cafeteria table laden down with thirty thousand calories worth of meat loaf, imitation mashed potatoes, and four puddin' cups, then they should do a fucking pushup from time to time. And by push up, I don't mean the orange sherbet filled toilet paper roll with a stick you get from an ice cream truck!

Really, why shouldn't we get a laugh at the expense of the fat kid who by the time he's ten fucking years old has man boobs that rival Dolly Parton's gravity and age defying massive mammary mounds? Is it our fault the fat Shamu-looking fuck has to Crisco himself into the boy's bathroom stall so that he can cry his gravy laced tears because he's being picked on for having the water displacement of an aircraft carrier and doesn't have any friends? I think not!

Don't even get me started on the homeless! Why do we care that they're sleeping out in the open? Think about it! Many of us homed people will plan vacations and spend a lot of money for the chance to sleep out in the open just like the homeless. It's called fucking camping! So basically, the homeless get to do what those of us with jobs and homes have to pay for. So, we're supposed to feel bad for them? Their lives are one endless fucking vacation! I think we should stop calling them homeless and start calling them camping privileged!

Every time you turn on the news nowadays you see stories about, "War Torn Refugees." Why are we supposed to care? They can take care of their situation all by themselves! All these folks need to do is connect with one of the war correspondents and have them hook them up with an Only Fans page. You know there's a lot of sick 40 year old virgins out there who live in their parent's basement that would love to whack it to some malnourished, ribs showing, cholera plagued hottie in some Third World country. Well, so long as they still have teeth. Fuck, I bet they'd even be able to ignore the bombs falling in the background! These, "War Torn Refugees" need to take the initiative! Fuck, I bet a month after they start their Only Fans page they can afford to charter a LearJet, purchase citizenship, move the the United States, vote fucking Republican, and live the American fucking Dream!

Everyone in the audience is now laughing. They're making sure everyone else is laughing because they don't want to be seen as a hateful dick, but they're laughing.

To the audience: That's my set folks! Don't forget to tip your servers. Don't drink and drive. Oh, and don't forget to check out my Netflix Special, 'Shallowgenepool: Rubbing One Out In Front of a Live Audience' streaming soon!'"

She dances in the wind

Her vivid colors twisting, pinned

Against the backdrop of the nightsky

A warm embrace, one touch, you die

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust

Reborn in her trust

The world crashes

Yet you rise

Like the phoenix, a reprise

What once was, will never be

In her flames, gone are the sea

Of sorrows, worries and pain

Everything set to gain

A blank slate

A new fate

An empty canvas

With endless paint

I'd like... To be forgotten. No, that's not accurate. I'd like the person they see me as to be forgotten. I'd like to be given a funeral as who I am, not what they expect of me.

I already have a shaky idea of what it would look like if my family - my parents - were to bury me. They would gather relatives I never knew or cared about. Put me in a dress (I'd... Rather not) and maybe even jewellery. Maybe even do my hair in some way to make it seem I was a lovely Christian girl, the daughter of dreams.

I wouldn't say I'm rebellious. I spent a lot of my life trying to be perfect for them, actually. It's led to issues I'm working on but regardless, that was me. A version of me. Funny how even when things change so much, those little pieces and incorrect ways of thinking still stick around somewhere like an old piece of chewed gum.

So I do worry. That they'd give me a Christian funeral. Bring in a priest. Speak in Igbo as if I loved it. Talk about how I never got to have a husband or children as if that was a dream I had. About the people I could have been, the career paths I could have chosen, all of which would be their wants, not mine.

I've thought of this before. But briefly. Because back when I wanted to die that much, I suppose it hurt even though it wouldn't matter when I was dead, that the last time my body would be above the ground was going to be an elaborate, rich people party lie. Strangers apologising to my parents, praying for my soul. It reminds me of my eigth birthday party. Adults filling the sitting room. Me, my sister and a few of our friends to keep it down upstairs while they partied on our behalf.

But you're asking what I want. And... I don't know?

Well actually, I guess I do. I'd like to be in a suit. With my hair cut the way I like it. No earrings. Maybe even no shoes cos fuck em. Maybe some bathroom slippers. Remember me as I was in life. Except wearing a "man's outfit" cos I wanna be burned looking hot, I guess? I haven't worn a suit since I had to pretend to be a businessman during a secondary school presentation years ago. I think I'd like to some day when I feel brave enough. Why not the day I'm meant to go, as well?

I think I do want to be cremated. I don't see the point of burials... Personally. I understand wanting to return my body to the earth to be eaten and used for its nourishment. But burials of today mean giant slabs of wood and marble. As if people are meant to stay human-looking and alive forever. I know it seems like that's all we are but we never really were, were we? There's so much to a person beyond the things they've been taught by the world around them. Besides who they've grown to become.

Just... Burn me, man. Let me turn to ash. I think ash is a weird, beautiful concept. The way it moves and fades into the wind. I don't want to be dropped in a specific place. I just want to join the breeze. I want them to take me to different places, places that aren't choked up in noise and city-living... And just... Throw me into the air. Heck, they can travel to do it. A little bit of Paris, a little bit of Italia heh... Why not? My sister and brother should do it... I trust them most.

And then it would all be over. But I worry. That I would be buried the way the parents want me to. It's part of why I don't mind the thought of dying alone, in some strange country... Body never to be found by family. I don't want to go the way they bury their relatives. With the pretence and the keeping up grand appearances. I don't want someone to ask a child "why aren't you smiling more" at my funeral the way my aunt did to me at her mother's funeral, as if being around the guests/relatives/utter strangers meant I had to play a part. Be a puppet.

Acting is overrated. And yeah, it likely won't mean a thing to a dead person, whether there's an afterlife or not but I don't want to have my death the way people made me feel I had to be in life. Just throw me to the breeze, the sea, into the void of nothing that was always a part of me. Let me be sucked away, never to be again... Probably. No way to tell, really.

I always wanted to be a bird, a cloud, a piece of the wind... At least my broken-down body would get the experience of that for a moment. That alone would be enough.