Rooks

            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.