“The Wounded King (Inspired by ‘Un Chein Andalou’)”

She sat in the splintered chair, naked, maladjusted to the short beams of natural light peering in through a dusty window, decorated by the corpses of moths, long since dead on the pane. Frayed ropes held her against the cold wood, the damaged pieces digging into her soft, supple flesh, sending small creeks of blood rolling in the direction of gravity, like the swirling peppermint of a candy cane.

From the shadowed corners of the dimly represented room, a large man, toned from years of heavy lifting, approached her vulnerability from behind, a shimmering fragment of steel resting perfectly in his hand.

His eyes were as cold as the winter that lay outside, collecting it’s frosty precipitation
along the windowsill, lamenting itself as the perfect natural backdrop to what had
begun to transpire on the warmer side of the dilapidated wooden walls of the shack along the French countryside. No fear ever crossed her toned face, and she did not quiver, instead maintaining an intense degree of calm, making her the perfect torture in the buff man’s dead eyes.

From behind her, he placed his raptured hand on her gentle neck, like the hand of a devil making it’s position on the neck of an angelic martyr, while she prepared for any fate that may have been bestowed on her. The man positioned the razor upon that cotton neck, while his other hand made it’s way to her bare breast, cupping it forcefully. A sinister smile curled up the side of his face as he moved the razor up her neck, the blade never making any mark on her snow white skin. With the razor sitting on the side of her face, the nude woman didn’t utter a sound, instead sitting and bleeding in the chair like an ancient statue that has stood multiple tests of time and elements.

The man, becoming infatuated by the aspect of harming this perfect example of human beauty, took the hand that was on the breast and moved it up to her eye, using his index and finger and thumb to pry her large brown eyes visible to the world. With a swift motion, the man sent the razor along the front of the woman’s iris, splitting it like a busted seam.
The woman still did not make a noise, instead taking the act as formidable and deserved, somehow making this sadistic man a type of hero that no story could ever tell in a positive light.

The man lowered his face to the side of hers, his dark, scraggly facial hair rubbing on her soft cheek, and whispered four words in her ear.

I am an Andalusian dog.


About Robert L. Franklin

Ah, the About Me section - social networking's excuse for you sounding like an elitist prick. Hmm... what to say? What to say?
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