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Only a Bottle Away

Well I grew up in a trailer with a burner stove, it burned me every time I was bad and my mother said the devil works in mysterious ways. I asked her if god knew about trailer park stoves and she told me god left the parks back in 1973 when he realized we were the lost cause of America. I turned up the flame on that stove while she slept in the next room and I left to be a lost cause somewhere that god had not forgotten about. I took the train to Kansas City, a man said I could make some money with my body and that he wouldn’t take a dime. I told him the devil works in mysterious ways and I would let him use me if that was my devil’s plan. They played card games on my naked body and poured whiskey over my bare breasts. A man came in carrying an umbrella, he took my hand and pulled me out of the gambling pit, he said angels don’t lie down with demons; they don’t punish themselves for the world’s sin. He opened his umbrella and took me to the hotel Avalon, put shoes on my feet and a dress over my skin. That man took those sins in a rock he lit on fire and fell into another world, where I could not follow. I followed my ashes to a park in the rain with his umbrella where the sparks of lightning danced around those shoes, that dress got damp and I got cold. He said I was an angel, he told me I didn’t need to lay down with demons. I walked to the first open door and I saw them fist fighting in a ring. He looked out through bloody eyes. He said that god didn’t let saints into hell. He asked me to walk out the way I came in. Hell was only a boxing match away from my umbrella. He took a bare knuckle to the face and on his knees he asked me to forgive him. I put my hands on his face, I pulled out his pain, I pulled out the blood. With my wet clothes and his beaten body, we rode the rails. In a room on the outside of happiness he pulled up my dress, he took off my shoes, he kissed my face and told me saints don’t save the lost causes and we went to bed on a moth eaten mattress. When he woke up my hand was on his gas stove, and the devil was doing his best. I told him no saint lived in this skin and someone said I was an angel, but the demons knew better, that’s why they took me into bed with them. He held my belly against his ear. He said that saviors are a bottle away from sinners, and my heart was strong like an engine, my heart was warm like heaven. We lived on each other’s love, and we died in each other’s arms: saints in the devil’s hands.

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About deadendemily

Emily lives in Austin, TX. She has a minor in chaos and a major in spray paint. She likes Vincent Price and ABBA. She enjoys being covered in fake blood and writing horror stories. Most of the time she just hopes that her cat is not plotting to murder her, her cat being a minion of Satan and all. They would never suspect the cat.

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