The red dress. That self-concocted idea of the perfect woman just waiting for me to buy her a drink. And when I do eventually pull my guts together and ask her, I pray to God, that I have not started putrefying. Nothing ruins a first impression as the smell of death. When I finally do happen upon this wonderful lady, I think I am going to try and hide the whole dead-thing. I don’t think it is such a great icebreaker, and by the way I am doing just fine. I am dead, but other than that I am doing quite fine, thank you. Am I? They all said that I most definitely was not dead. Well, that is just not true, but maybe I will be able to play the game without blabbering about such boring subjects as, whether or not I am actually dead or alive. Only shrinks would find my constant persistence intriguing. A date would most probably just find it boring, and terribly sad. It just isn’t that easy hiding it. When one is in fact dead, it seems to pretty much overshadow all other variable subjects of conversation. I got completely swallowed by the fact. So much, so I actually forgot to panic, that I was suddenly deceased. It never struck me as a scary thought, mostly because I was so taken in by this transition. The concept of being killed into a fit body. Kind of like being born into a new world, only a lot more grim. That might not seem like such a flattering comparison, but it is the best I have got. I have tried to speak with people about this condition that I seem to be “suffering” under, but the only person, who remotely understands, is undergoing quite a transition herself and her mind is a study comparable to mine. I think I might try and explain it further to my brother, but I don’t think this fits with his idea of creating a constructive environment in which one might display a creative side.
Anyway, this red dress seems to haunt me. Is the red dress the best metaphor? The poor ballerina might work better for what I crave. Well, not exactly the poor ballerina, I don’t want this broken down girl. Besides I have already had my share of ballerinas and we all remember how that went. And just for the record, the ballerina in question was not poor. On the contrary, she seemed to be wearing a stunningly scarlet dress. That is certainly the last time I considered the red dress. But I don’t want the perfect woman. I don’t want this sweet, caring Belle, who always knows what to do and say. And how would a person like that even cope with a traumatising character like me. No, it would be better to spare the poor girl of my horrible past. A combination of the red dress and the poor ballerina would probably work. Help me, I need words. It just seems easier to work in these sorts of Jungian arc types. And I am really considering this one very carefully. What do I want? I could ask, what do any guy want, but that would just be wrong. “Any guy” is probably not dead. I think, no I hope that I am the only dead person with these concerns. I just really can’t figure out my so-called “type” right now. It is not like we are in any hurry. Besides, this may just make a great teaser for all who reads this. I can imagine a depressed, 14 year old girl going all Twilight-romantic, thinking “What is this guy’s type? ”, while she is blinking those big puppy eyes at the ceiling and cuddling her little sisters teddy bear. But then again, if a depressed, 14 year old girl ever did read any of my stuff it might just lead to a sad overdose on painkillers, and I really do not want to think myself responsible, so fair warning; all depressed, 14 year old girls, stay away from this and please hand over your sister teddy bear, because she surely needs it more than you do, and you should stay away from romantic stuff. It will just end up breaking your heart, when you finally do lose your virginity the first time you get drunk and dumped by the popular guy from your class. Alright, enough with the parental-like warnings and the stereotypes. That was mainly to distract my thoughts as I tried to find my arc type. And also, it was something that I really wanted to throw out there.
I have found that love is like wine. Not red, juicy and intoxicating; simply intoxicating. It is like this: The doctor tells you that the occasional glass of wine is healthy. That it is supposed to lower your cholesterol or something like that. Well, you drink that occasional glass of wine. Sometimes you down an entire bottle. You get drunk and then you do crazy stuff. But you keep telling yourself that the doctor recommended it. That it is supposed to be healthy. Soon, the occasional glass becomes less occasional. You find yourself remembering those few, occasional moments without wine, but the memories are just too painful so you go ahead and down another bottle. And so a few happy years goes by, drunk and without a care. Then the doctor tells you that the occasional glass should be just that; occasional. He takes away your wine, gives you some drugs, so your body will repel the wine, and suddenly the wine is the enemy. It hurts. At that moment, you realise just how thirsty you really are. You stop taking the drugs and you ignore your doctor, and you go on with what you know deep down is healthy. The doctor said it was healthy, so.
The funny thing about a poisoned glass of wine is that you do not realise the poison until you drink the wine. And one day a girl in a very, very red dress might just have tipped something into your wine. Of course, you are far too drunk to realise anything, so you go ahead and enjoy that first glass in such a long time. And how sweet it tastes, and the numbness that spreads through your lips, as they part with the glass. It is indeed a good wine. A French wine from an excellent year. But then you start to feel a sting in your chest. It spreads, and before you realise it, you are dead. The red-dressed temptress of my past used a very peculiar poison. It took a little longer, and when it had finished, all my vital organs were still alive and functional. And this is truly a contributing factor in the search of my cause of death. It might even be the actual cause. I think it is. I had been dying for a few years, but this was the final blow. I was murdered by a ballerina clothed in red, who spoke such flattering words of comfort. And so did I. She spoke of my incredible insight into the human mind, when only know, do I realise how limited my insight truly is. She spoke of an attraction, but how could an attraction of hers ever arouse for me? I shaded my intentions in panicked words of calm. If only ever I had retained the insight to realise her true deception. And so the words of a greater man eclipse my murder:
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