Dura lex, Sed lex.

It seems I’m an ostrich, a bit ugly on the edge and a total airhead. At least that’s how my knight saw me in the first place. I hope his view had evolved with time. It would be a bit depressing if not.

How could a knight see his lady like that? And still be dedicated to her to the death if necessary? Or is it what they called love?

I’m not so used to write things down like he did, so spare me a bit if I don’t make sense sometimes.

I read all there is to read about my knight, I saw all his pictures, all his texts, read all the reports, at least, those the justice’s court let me access. They say it was everything but they could always lie about that.

Should I try to emulate him? See? I’m sure I could do it if you give me some time. But that’s what I don’t have at the moment. That story of ours is on every-lips in the world by now, after so many years of silence or should I say forced silence?

Not the story of my poor night, writing his hopes in the shapes of birds when others saw him as a lunatic mass murderer. Not mine and how I’ve been raped a few times in the events my knights described. Oh, and also after too, but well, it was all for my own good. And, of course, to teach me a lesson, so it’s supposed to be forgivable and completely normal. The joke.

Those stories, no one wanted to care about for years, even when I tried my hardest to make them care about it. After all, who would care about lunatics in the middle of nowhere? Who’ll try to learn why some of them are missing? Especially when nothing out of ordinary happens and everyone says the same. That it’s probably just a glitch in some papers somewhere. Just an admin thing.

It was then completely evident that I had to change my way of doing things, and I suppose I did it, splendidly. It just took years for me to do it.

Now I could proudly tell my knight that they absolutely care about it, like they never cared about something before. All of them, and probably some more too. But I bet he wouldn’t care that much himself. I suppose he would say that dregs are dregs after all. And then he’ll just try to understand why normal people would voluntarily dirty their shoes walking on dregs when there is so much empty space around to walk.

But it’s really pathetic, they tried so hard to understand what it was about that they always missed the core of it. And so, they built a mountain of bullshits, on the top of a pit of nauseated half-baked thoughts. Talk about a haystack to find a pin. Even less a kind of truth.

And they try, they so very much try to know how and why all that happened, I could only pity them for not seeing what it should be visible like the sun in a cloudless day and what’s really important here, and why I can’t stand what happens back there.

And yet, at the end, they can’t. I’ll laugh about it if it wasn’t so pathetic. I know my dead knight would have laughed about it. Me? I can’t. Some of them now called me the reincarnation of Lilith or the new Bathory countess. I’m supposed to be fury made flesh, I got no time to laugh. I have to play my new role on it. Again, what a joke. Give people what they deserved and you could enter the big History from the black, ugly door.

But I had a need to take the time to write a few words and make them added it at the end of those of my poor knight. That story needs a proper ending at least. Who could write it if not me?

Today, they sacrificed an inquisitor on my altar to try to south my ire. The hypocritical joke.

Anyway, duty calls. And for any god sake, and mine, and his, don’t be so dumb damn morons, or worse! Don’t stay that dumb! Or else, well, I’ll come for you too someday, I’m the new boogeygirl, the monstrous ostrich munching faces all day long after all. I have to play the part, that’s the least I can do isn’t it?