Суббота, 07 Мая 2011 г. 15:51
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Каждый день она снимает себя на камеру.
Она пишет диплом, задаваясь вопросом: "Что приобретает человек, убивая себя?"
Она ищет ответ - хочет верить, что со смертью становится лучше.
Каждый день она снимает на камеру свою смерть.
by Villard L. Cord
Swish… Blank… Noise… Rec…
Little red light turned on. Through the tiny monochrome display one could see only vagueness disturbed by the bouncing scratches of thrilling mentality. There along with her dream in the middle of dim hollow room swung a girl with her eyes open wide; without blink thus she gazed in the camera lens, and her lips moved in silent endeavour to bring out the voice from beyond, just to say in contemptuous anger: “Rope. Dismissed,” – removing the loop off her throat like a necklace that made her feel bored on the Saturday evening.
She rewound the film winding piece of a rope round her arm, and stopped dead, being not dead at all, watching over and over how one girl, closely known to her, put a stool right in front of the shivery bulb ‘midst the hardly observable crossed broken-down parquet, and standing on it put a fleecy embrace on her neck with a smile that a Hollywood starlet would make to the loaded camera. Then she started to sway getting free of a stool, closing eyes like a child whose dream is about to come true, tightly held by the ropy hand of uncompromised dying.
Yet again disappointed she was. Though she was prepared – had a knife being hidden inside of her pocket, ‘cause you know it’s no big fun to keep hanging forever, feeling hungry and thirsty, and uncomfortably wetting your pants. So she had cut the rope and now strangled her wrist with that useless device pled guilty and dismissed of misbehaviour.
Returning to her desk, she took the plans and crossed out the experienced method. Some had been left though, but the rope was anymore of her concern.
“Professor, it’s her again”, - third-year student secretary wrinkled at the door with a skillful grimace.
“Oh… well, let her in”.
“Maybe she’d better leave?”
“Part of my mind wants her vanish today, while another is curious ‘bout what she will bring me tomorrow. Bring her in, Evelyn”.
“Oh, that rhymy shit again! Sometimes I think he’s the same weirdo like the girl. Diploma on “Post Suicide Experiences or How human reflects the achievement of killing himself”, Jesus! That is something!” – Evelyn hushed to herself leaving the Professor’s office to approve the trespassing of that “ugly sprite” into her quiet routine.
“Hello, creep”, - she grinned at the gothic style girl, wrapped in black, wearing shadowy glass and the ribbon with cameo skull braced around her neck, “What is this? Hiding a vampire kiss?”
“None of your quiz.”
“Oh, rhymes again. You reek of rotten poetry!”
“Be pleased, I metaphorically reek.”
“Yeah-yeah, whatever. Professor is meeting you, rejoice. Just mute you witchy lips”.
Leaving third-year Evelyn fed with meaningful sentence of the third finger, the girl entered Professor’s room, eager to speak new details of her determination. Professor listened carefully, attentively, without interruptions or misleads. He truly was a man of greater skill and confident behavior. Though from the point of sense he couldn’t understand all of her saying, but calling himself a researcher he still was profoundly intrigued by this case, according to which (assuming she’s not imagining things) the girl had been dead for about a dozen of times, yet still she was standing before him, expressing in language of weird and terrifying words.
When she finished her speech, he asked in a low pleasant voice:
“So, you hanged yourself this morning. Last time, when you were hit by the train, you managed to live despite the broken ribs and spine. Now you decorated yourself with a pendent-scar and, I’m sure, your head is scarcely well connected to your body. If you’re not dying soon, you could not be repaired. Maybe you should try to live?”
“No, Professor, you don’t understand. Can you think about something that is as unreachable for you as the moon, that you never shall touch, never know what it’s made from, and if there’re any handsome third-year blond student girls bathing in the craters of buttery seas, just waiting for your mastership to coach them?”
He blushed, remembering that night when he stayed working late just to go for a spin on sweet Evelyn, but brought himself to senses fast and set his mind to follow with an answer… though he couldn’t tell. Everything is reachable in life, and death – one of the easiest. But this girl – she couldn’t die – she said – thereby the dream of death became her deep obsession.
“The only thing I’m doing this, the only point of me speaking to you, Professor, is because I’m stuck, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to die. That’s why I’m asking you – again – to help me die, to think about how to make me dead, at last, not just some creepy broken doll with no goddamn life, but certainly corpse unable to speak and move, released from his everyday shows of suicidal theatre. Some people are not just meant to live. They belong to dead, but somehow had been pinned to frail bodies. Help me pass.”
But, at this part, as always, he just shook his head, renouncing any involvement in such kind of experiment. Arose the material mind, and again she was lacking of Professor’s sympathy, getting the image of incomprehension and apathy in his shallow eyes. Every time he defended himself in this way, like being turned off – as she did to the camera every day of her fruitless attempts to come dead.
Thus again she just left without word past the door, past the hall, past the ignorant Evelyn being, and back home she went on and on through her plans, searching for the clue how to end her unwanted un-living.
Swish… Blank… Noise… Rec…
Little red light turned on. Through the tiny monochrome display one could see chessboard tiles collapsing and devouring each other around the cast-iron bathtub. She was lying there still with her veins unsealed, swallowing drops of rusty noisome liquor spitting out of stewed old tap. Her blouse wet and frivolous nipples swelled, attracting the camera look to her womanly breasts, seductive and tense in their shameless virginity. Precious to some they were nothing to her – all her body was nothing to her, just a dreadful material. Therefore, shaving off those ridiculous nipples she felt no regret, just a thought: “Should I feed them to cats? I wonder if they are fond of nipples…”
Being absorbed by this thought, which occurred to her both humorous and intelligent, for it was definitely one of the liveliest things she wondered about in her fictitious life, the girl didn’t notice a man standing over her watery nakedness, watching her shapes for a while through objective lens.
“Still continue to ruin yourself...”
“Did you come to help?” Without startle she pointed her eyes at the camera.
“You’re a beautiful woman. To ruin you would be a waste.”
“I am already ruined, Professor”.
Rec… Swish… Noise… Blank…
Little red light turned off.
They say he confessed to the rape.
On the 29th day of the moon...
Проза и музыка (c) Villard L. Cord
Фотографический образ by MarieLaReine