Lilith

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There’s only one thing I hate more than men: women who try to please men. Ladies, it’s not cute and I don’t know how you bring it out of me because I hate men. Take my ex for instance, let’s call him “Adam.” Adam and I were walking around a garden one very average day when we come across this pretentious little princess. That girl was in overdrive. Miss Melons looked like she’d give it all for an ounce of attention from my “better half.” Whore. Adam shoots me one of those “You’re gonna be the side chick now, what are you going to do about it?” glances. You have to understand, I’ve been around much longer than him. I’d seen the eons pass into nothing as stars exploded and imploded, as galaxies formed, merged, died in spectacular masses of blinding radiance. This wannabe was pretending that I couldn’t find a 2 dollar Tony with better abs down the street. Tits could have him for all I care. I flip him the old double bird salute before peacing out of that shithole. I’m glad she’s dead. He’s still around, y’know? He even calls every now and then.

There’s only one thing the world hates more than a woman and that’s a woman without a man. They strap you to a wooden stake for 10 hours while a pathetic kindling does its best impression of killing you, all for being a little too independent. So long as your definition of independence is predicated on binding the soul of a toad to the body of a human for “experimental” purposes. Worst of all, it was the women who outed me. They said I was a witch. I said they were all shriveled old hags who never did bed men which is why chose to join a convent instead. Trust me, it’s terribly pedantic. Besides, I preferred drowning. The rock was a little inconvenient, but I always enjoyed the plunge. Sure, I’d be down there for a while before the rope finally snapped. Sure, it was a little boring. At least there was the luscious lull of silence, away from all those men. And, no, I did not die. But, you’ve probably figured that out by now. I digress.

I hate Adam, I hate men, I hate women who like men. What’s worse is that I’m often mistaken for a man or, worse, a drakken. Please, men are so overrated. You think that with all the conquering and the empires they would figure out how to beautify a cadaver so it looks presentable. And, really, a drakken? Really?! Sometimes I wonder who the fuck you insects think you are? How dare you compare me to those disgusting, ugly, blood sucking perverts? Do I look like I spend my weekends crawling around sewers, pretending that I hate sunlight? Seriously, what the hell is electromagnetic radiation going to do to a drakken that it can’t do to a human? It’s okay; I forgive you. If you took your inane race’s inconsequential time on this planet and added it to the drakken’s scarcely consequential time on this planet it would still be a meaningless blip in the history of existence. You’re all so young, you and the creatures that make things go bump in the night. As understandable as it is that you morons would mistake an artist for a fucking monster, I still have my gripes because my creative nature doesn’t come from my lengthy existence. Whether you are ghoul, demon, drakken, onryo, kazmaan, or pret, the best monsters are always women.

If we want to look at the basics then it is completely obvious, men like to talk. Men talk about war and how hard they are and how they like to kill and hurt. It’s all bullshit. From the time a woman was a young girl she went through changes that make her deal with blood all the time. We must understand our bodies like no man possibly could. How can anyone but a woman know the delicacies of exsanguinating a maid with such care that she can bathe in gorgeous crimson with only a couple “volunteers,” all without spilling a drop, might I add? How can anyone but a woman stalk ladies so carefully, so meticulously, night after night, without ever being caught, without anyone ever suspecting a thing? How can anyone but a woman eviscerate those wretched courtesans so cautiously as to not damage the uterus during the extraction from an artificial abdominal cavity? How can anyone but a woman peel off the skin from a warm, soft body, so that none of that fragile epithelial tissue rips? Certainly not a man, not back then anyway. Hell, half the men today can’t even find a damn clitoris.

You’re probably thinking, “if you hate men so much why have you only mentioned killing women?” Read paragraph one, numbnuts. If you can’t be bothered to go back, then I’ll remind you. There’s only one thing I hate more than men and that is women who try to please men. I’m trying to tell you a story here, so have the decency to pay attention. But, if you must know, I do kill men too. I’m not nearly as clever with how I dispatch them from their fleshy little meat sacks, but you should know that I geld them all first. I keep the bodies in my basement, a luxurious basement, and my pit isn’t even half full. Besides, the women deserve it. Anyone willing to be subservient to men, to bow down to the almighty phallus, needs to be ripped out, root and stem. No pun intended.

“In that case, what are you doing these days?” I can already feel your uninspired question crawl across my skin. Shut up and you’ll see. Take a break from your papyrus rolls that give you topical daily information and propaganda and take a visit to Germany! You can do it now, y’know, visit every part of Germany? Even as an American. In the lakeside town of Rottach-Egern there should be a church called St. Laurentius. There should also be a recent uptick in the disappearance of adolescent girls. Anyway, there should be a rather peculiar structure off to the left of the church, when you face it with your back turned away from the Tegernsee lake. I hate to call it a tree, since it puts all conventional flora to shame, but I’d like to think it is the most astonishing mosaic the world has ever seen. I am so creative with my work.

You see, I hate to waste my materials, so I use everything on hand. The blood is used to soak the soil. We’re all so rich in nutrients and no one seems to be able to tell. I use the torsos to make the trunk of the tree, that makes sense, right? The torso is like the trunk of the body and it holds everything upright! Of course, you can’t have a naked trunk, so I use all the skin grafted together like a nice long quilt. And to keep all the pieces from flopping around I use animal glue made from, you guessed it, the bones and cartilage. I am particularly fond of the branches and leaves. I used the femurs attached to several tendons. Perfect branches! Then, I took individually sewed each nail onto the end of the tendons using the capillaries from muscular tissue. Perfect leaves! I could go on, but I would hate to spoil all the fun. Don’t leave yet, I left out a rather important little detail. It is a fully functioning tree, made of people! Well, girls anyway. I used the inferior venae cavae to make the xylem and the aortic segments to make the phloem. Best of all, it runs on blood, I told you human blood is handy! My pièce de résistance crafted from animal tissue is a perfectly functioning plant. I bet your biology teachers would be furious. I would hurry if I were you. I may have gone over board and used at least 364 of the little she-witches in the making. I’m sure the authorities won’t leave my baby around forever and I wouldn’t be surprised if it never makes the news. They don’t make reporters like they use to and I doubt any sensible regulating body would let this shit show out to the world.

Men like to walk and talk and destroy and harass underpaid baristas. Adam liked to walk, anyway, I couldn’t find another whore-fucking-prude who loved to walk as much as he did. I like to innovate. If you ever need art lessons send me a telegram. Or a fax. Or whatever the fuck they use these days. See you around ;)

Lilith, 1995

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Excerpt from The Qadowsh Commemorative, Section 2: Dybbuk, First Entry לילית

Submitted February 25, 2019 at 05:50AM by Haschen84 https://ift.tt/2Tihz1W