m0nde
08-06-2019, 10:01 PM
An anonymous woman wrote to Ask Natalie in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette very worried about her husband and the family finances. You see, the couple had been retired for several years, but now, their marginally upper middle class lifestyle was in jeopardy. Her husband had spent the last of the money they'd saved from the sale of their musical instrument business, which had never really turned a profit, converting their basement into a bizarre, sound proof cell, with custom furniture adorned with shackles, pulleys hanging from the ceiling, chrome fixtures meeting the joinery, all of it lit by blinding spotlights. He had become more distant, first spending an increasing amount of time on his ham radio, then obsessed with an internet forum. The final straw came soon after his playroom was finished, a heavy, riveted steel door with a peephole, the last piece in place. She was forced to watch that first night as big, sweaty negro men filed through her foyer, down into that horrible place. She couldn't avert her eyes as the blood drained from her face as her husband stripped naked in front of these brutish looking men, the sharp edges of his withered form throwing grotesque shadows across her heaving chest. She gasped and felt the bile rise in her belly as he pulled up the dirty sequined mini skirt and cinched the halter. He then look at her, his eyes empty. A smile began to spread across his wrinkled face as he began to smear the glossy red lipstick across his mouth, finally pulling on that garish plantinum blonde wig of hers.
She knew what was to come next, but when she talked to her therapist each week, long after he'd passed, she admitted that her love for black men had fueled his hatred for them. When she buried his body, she remembered the odor of semen and the iron of his blood. His orifi resembled torn, engorged sausage casings. She remembered describing this in detail to anyone who would listen. She missed him, but she knew she had lost him long ago. She came to understand that he had snapped and wanted her to feel his pain. He told her that he was Lexi Persimmons.
She knew what was to come next, but when she talked to her therapist each week, long after he'd passed, she admitted that her love for black men had fueled his hatred for them. When she buried his body, she remembered the odor of semen and the iron of his blood. His orifi resembled torn, engorged sausage casings. She remembered describing this in detail to anyone who would listen. She missed him, but she knew she had lost him long ago. She came to understand that he had snapped and wanted her to feel his pain. He told her that he was Lexi Persimmons.