I read in a
magazine once that a person’s residence is a reflection of their inner
being. Aside from wondering how that
applies to kidnap victims in illogically tall towers made of stone, I often
wonder what my home says about me. My
home is much like those of Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, and other such fairy tale
victims, but I chose to be here. The
high walls, the bleak stone, the thick doors, the single spiral staircase in
the whole damn place, I love it here!
But what does that say about me?
That I hate the outside world?
That I need to shut them out? I
wouldn’t say that. I enjoy reading about
the goings on of the world via various newspapers as I drink my morning ale
beside my fire (I love fireplaces, too).
If I had to
really dig down and analyze why I like living in this tower, it would have to
be the power of it. Nothing will knock
this place down; I can always live here.
When I go up to the roof, for lack of a better term, I feel like Simba
at the beginning of Lion King, imagining that I am in charge of everything I
survey. It’s exhilarating! Now, in
truth, I know I don’t own anything, but it’s nice to get an imaginary power
trip every now and then. It just makes my
day all shiny and warm. It even
moves! I couldn’t really explain the
logic or mechanisms by which the tower moves, but it most certainly does! It’s the damnedest thing! Every once in a while, I move my tower to a
different county. I love to see the look
on my new neighbors’ faces when they discover that a massive cylinder of stone
masonry has appeared beside their humble abode overnight.
Now, with
that in mind, imagine my consternation when I heard a knock on the door, only
to find a peasant with pizza and poorly concealed pistol at the portal to my
tower. He dared attack me? These xenophobes were all the same:
uneducated, hideously simple, and, I figured this out as I slit his throat with
a dagger with the most exquisite garnet on the hilt, terribly susceptible to
knife wounds. I got the knife many years
ago, I forgot exactly where now, but the garnet matches the blood that spills
across the blade so perfectly, it’s as if it were meant for this very
purpose. The problem with this little
hobby of mine, by that I mean killing the human detritus that happens upon me,
is that I have to move quite frequently to keep authorities off my back. Wouldn’t want some rabid bitch of a queen to
come roaring up my ass, would I? And I can’t seem to quite quit killing these
poor bastards, so I must keep on the move.
I wasn’t entirely honest about my motives of moving, when I told you
before.
I’m afraid
some people in the world just don’t understand the art I am trying to
accomplish here. I pity them as I sweep
their foundation out from under them.