Content warning: Adult content
My name is Hemato Tomato, I have a thing for blood. I used to think it was decapitation. Then I met the love of my life.
In her previous lifetime, she had lived in The Black Forest of Alsace France. After she died of old age, she had unfinished business. Her next life met me, who wanted to give her another life. A life without being gang raped by her brothers, her father using her as a substitute for Elizabet who died of consumption, and her wallflower sister Ursula who warned her her father was going beat her bottom if she didn't stop trying to poison her family members.
I wanted to be her shining night.
I had my own issues, being that I once thought I liked dead girls. I wanted to see their heads roll off their shoulders. I wanted use them as bowling balls in a bowling ring, I wanted to caress them and give them all the love in the world. But the truth, a truth I had hid from myself, was far different.
I didn't like rejection.
I didn't want to be alone. And I wept tears beyond mortal tears, when the realization hit that someone my age died as a child.
I wanted her own kingdom by the sea. I had been so lost in my own digital sexuality, my own lust for the lost. My own lust for the child by the sea. I ignored my own conscience, my own desires for the tender life.
I wanted to be my wife.
My wife, her story. For me I wanted something different, partially to satisfy my own boredom, but also I had began to fall in love with this girl.
It's two thousand sixteen, and you wouldn't think there would still be decapitation. After Boeglin died of old age in 1889, she was reborn into a poor Alsatian-American family just outside of Seattle.
I didn't think I'd fall in love with a parricidal girl. I didn't even a girl would have a thing for a trans woman, being trans one isn't exactly the queen of beauties until you start on hormone replacement therapy. And based on here say, my impression had always been France was as bad as Italy LGBT wise. Just with French exceptional-ism.
The lust, it crushes all overpowering self. It smiles weakly simmering. Lustless, the sex drive withers into fine dust. Weeping, weeping, and weeping.
Danse, rhythm of death. The twist and turns, the final epitaph of the damned. Her smile weakly burning into my mind as her severed head becomes lifeless.
I here the sound of my father screaming, and then jerking me to the side. My final chance at being reunited, now gone.
Me and Boeglin were separated in death.
There were things taught to me in my early school years that could have became true, I am uncertain what the United States would be like if the British were who kept being in power. British isolationism overseas began to increasingly make it difficult to maintain the empire they once had, and so this gave the French ample room to eventually plant their seed in the United States, where I resided since my birth year. the French needed an additional empire to repair their old declining world, so they had some means of a back up plan in case things went to shit.
That's how the American I have was born, even still I wonder how less miserable my existence would have been if British still controlled the country, but they were on their way out after the American revolution.
My father acquired the post as a member Guillotine Gun family, a family originally the exclusive domain of the French masters who controlled various powers of influence across the 19th century. There was a girl that would fall in love with him that was able to convince her family that there was something special about my father that made who especially qualified for the task. Lopping off heads of the condemned with a feisty trigger finger.
They continued to date, and eventually they have me as their child who was apparently their son. However there was something about me that would throw their family for a loop forever. It wasn't like my extended family didn't love me, but they weren't used to the fact of dealing with a trans gendered. In their own country it was impossible to get anywhere do to being French. It turns out you can't even change your birth certificate without committing fraud. So technically if I were raised in France if I became the Borgia I feared to be, I would have been decapitated as a boy.
Even though I'm actually a girl.
Why should a girl be executed as a boy? I'm not sure if the French controlled US is the same way. NashChat isn't exactly what you call liberal either, and you can't change your birth certificate. But I always wanted to visit other sprawls like Seatak that had other legal requirements for trans people, ideally something a little more liberal.
My grandfather, who had aided the Nazi's in world war II by shipping out their headsman services, would always tell stories about women that were guillotined after there had been an overall extended ban on the practice around the 1880s-1890s, with beheading becoming gradually fewer as time went on, that switched over to reactivated capital punishment policy and law enforcement during world war II.
It wasn't just France and Britain that were effected. After the British exit many countries were considering reinstating capital punishment policies, one of the old countries that had previously banned capital punishment to join the EU reinstated the headsman's block as a method of capital punishment.
Previously they had this form of death penalty up until the Nazis took over the country, then Adolf Hitler banned all forms of capital punishment for non Jews except hanging and the Guillotine--what they called the Falling Axe. This killed passive resistance movements like the White Rose. There are more people killed by the Nazis by guillotined than everyone in French history combined.
But after the fall of the two dichotomies of Germany, eventually non Nazi controlled national cultural activists who wished to prefer their national heritage prior to the Nazis be rebuilt from the ground up, began a campaign of reinstating the headsman's block instead of the guillotine, where the only falling ax that survived destruction was the one that beheaded Sophie. This set the stage for something I will reference at a later date, after telling you about my darling Annie-Marie.
At the time when France was becoming more desperate for world dominance, they gradually refined what would eventually execute who would became my bride in death, the darling Anna-Marie.
This is our story.
My name is Hemato Tomato, I have a thing for blood. I used to think it was decapitation. Then I met the love of my life.
In her previous lifetime, she had lived in The Black Forest of Alsace France. After she died of old age, she had unfinished business. Her next life met me, who wanted to give her another life. A life without being gang raped by her brothers, her father using her as a substitute for Elizabet who died of consumption, and her wallflower sister Ursula who warned her her father was going beat her bottom if she didn't stop trying to poison her family members.
I wanted to be her shining night.
I had my own issues, being that I once thought I liked dead girls. I wanted to see their heads roll off their shoulders. I wanted use them as bowling balls in a bowling ring, I wanted to caress them and give them all the love in the world. But the truth, a truth I had hid from myself, was far different.
I didn't like rejection.
I didn't want to be alone. And I wept tears beyond mortal tears, when the realization hit that someone my age died as a child.
I wanted her own kingdom by the sea. I had been so lost in my own digital sexuality, my own lust for the lost. My own lust for the child by the sea. I ignored my own conscience, my own desires for the tender life.
I wanted to be my wife.
My wife, her story. For me I wanted something different, partially to satisfy my own boredom, but also I had began to fall in love with this girl.
It's two thousand sixteen, and you wouldn't think there would still be decapitation. After Boeglin died of old age in 1889, she was reborn into a poor Alsatian-American family just outside of Seattle.
I didn't think I'd fall in love with a parricidal girl. I didn't even a girl would have a thing for a trans woman, being trans one isn't exactly the queen of beauties until you start on hormone replacement therapy. And based on here say, my impression had always been France was as bad as Italy LGBT wise. Just with French exceptional-ism.
The lust, it crushes all overpowering self. It smiles weakly simmering. Lustless, the sex drive withers into fine dust. Weeping, weeping, and weeping.
Danse, rhythm of death. The twist and turns, the final epitaph of the damned. Her smile weakly burning into my mind as her severed head becomes lifeless.
I here the sound of my father screaming, and then jerking me to the side. My final chance at being reunited, now gone.
Me and Boeglin were separated in death.
There were things taught to me in my early school years that could have became true, I am uncertain what the United States would be like if the British were who kept being in power. British isolationism overseas began to increasingly make it difficult to maintain the empire they once had, and so this gave the French ample room to eventually plant their seed in the United States, where I resided since my birth year. the French needed an additional empire to repair their old declining world, so they had some means of a back up plan in case things went to shit.
That's how the American I have was born, even still I wonder how less miserable my existence would have been if British still controlled the country, but they were on their way out after the American revolution.
My father acquired the post as a member Guillotine Gun family, a family originally the exclusive domain of the French masters who controlled various powers of influence across the 19th century. There was a girl that would fall in love with him that was able to convince her family that there was something special about my father that made who especially qualified for the task. Lopping off heads of the condemned with a feisty trigger finger.
They continued to date, and eventually they have me as their child who was apparently their son. However there was something about me that would throw their family for a loop forever. It wasn't like my extended family didn't love me, but they weren't used to the fact of dealing with a trans gendered. In their own country it was impossible to get anywhere do to being French. It turns out you can't even change your birth certificate without committing fraud. So technically if I were raised in France if I became the Borgia I feared to be, I would have been decapitated as a boy.
Even though I'm actually a girl.
Why should a girl be executed as a boy? I'm not sure if the French controlled US is the same way. NashChat isn't exactly what you call liberal either, and you can't change your birth certificate. But I always wanted to visit other sprawls like Seatak that had other legal requirements for trans people, ideally something a little more liberal.
My grandfather, who had aided the Nazi's in world war II by shipping out their headsman services, would always tell stories about women that were guillotined after there had been an overall extended ban on the practice around the 1880s-1890s, with beheading becoming gradually fewer as time went on, that switched over to reactivated capital punishment policy and law enforcement during world war II.
It wasn't just France and Britain that were effected. After the British exit many countries were considering reinstating capital punishment policies, one of the old countries that had previously banned capital punishment to join the EU reinstated the headsman's block as a method of capital punishment.
Previously they had this form of death penalty up until the Nazis took over the country, then Adolf Hitler banned all forms of capital punishment for non Jews except hanging and the Guillotine--what they called the Falling Axe. This killed passive resistance movements like the White Rose. There are more people killed by the Nazis by guillotined than everyone in French history combined.
But after the fall of the two dichotomies of Germany, eventually non Nazi controlled national cultural activists who wished to prefer their national heritage prior to the Nazis be rebuilt from the ground up, began a campaign of reinstating the headsman's block instead of the guillotine, where the only falling ax that survived destruction was the one that beheaded Sophie. This set the stage for something I will reference at a later date, after telling you about my darling Annie-Marie.
At the time when France was becoming more desperate for world dominance, they gradually refined what would eventually execute who would became my bride in death, the darling Anna-Marie.
This is our story.
