Mary Christof, Queen of Hearts

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The Figurine/Mark of Cain

“Numquid vere ire cur ipsi iam transisset universus ” Illa expellens me insanit ”, et filius suus ’forsit demens in me . Quare recuruo pariet Ursis nocte coacta pisum cum catulus catulus leonis , et in timore , quod magnus est Dominus, faciemus , quia frater tuus est , qui laborem . flipped frater mensa . tu non tatam cum a guido qui talitrum tabulas!”

With that, I made to pull my bedsheet over my head, having conversed with the two of them. It was ugly, really. I would have avoided any of it, went back to whatever shred of a soul I had left in me at that point, ignored that any of it happened...and as my head stopped sharply pounding, I made enough of an effort to stare at the Wander Over Yonder calendar nailed to the wall, marking down the day as the 17th.

“Dixi vobis prolapsam restituit. Horrende prolapsam restituit . Quid est illud festum ? Melior agitur mensis est? Numquid habemus adhuc capulus reliquit nuntiis ego maius desiderat?”

Poking my belly lightly, a smile creeping up on my face as I examined the closet, pulling out habit after habit and respectfully placing them on my bed, pausing for a short chuckle as I turned toward the portraits on the white walls.

“You know, these habits are forming an attachment on me, but to account for the unexpected surprise, could they at least make them--urf--um...commodious? Wow. It fits...hmmmm...weird.”

My lips crunched pensively on the miniature crucifix, its back end poking out like a cigar butt as I proceeded to suck on it like a lollipop and meander helplessly down the hallway.

“I’ve never noticed this before, but wood tastes oddly sating...stupid cravings. Did it have to be the one with the meticulously crafted small-scale figure on it? I’m terrified of choking on it--man, do I feel sick...and it’s not even the end of the day yet...why me? Seriously, why me? What happened?”

Spitting out the figurine, immaculate aside from saliva, I sighed, then etched out some semblance of a smile while looking at the portrait of St. Jude and glancing at Rita before smacking my sawdusted lips and beginning to speak again, taking my sweet time walking out the door after dressing and pointing the Jesus figurine headfirst like it was Excalibur.

“Also, can I tell you something before I go out to think, at least while I have this spit-covered Jesus figurine in my hand here...? Well, in the span of the last several months of my life I have back-heaved my way up to this point--I now feel an odd sense of equanimity upon at last coming to terms with my fate as ruler of a--what exactly is this? A municipality? A kingdom? Because it clearly has a constitution left over from the United States, but it also borrows tactics from varying countries, most heavily Rome and Italy, expanding the Vatican to an almost masterly assimilation and modifying the first and second amendments to the point where it’s...well, let’s just say I’m glad I’m not praesepultus, though I have tried to kill myself on several occasions due to stress and fatigue."

My feet, they walked. My feet, they wandered. The figurine sat, my pocket almost magically purifying it of spit.

"Huh. Which brings me to the question of the Mark of Cain. He cannot hurt himself, only wander around in anguish for his crime. I have tried to kill myself over ten times, each one failing including the last one, in which two people rushed to save me before I could go to that sacred place in the sky," I exclaimed, pulling out the figurine--half looking upon it, half feeling unworthy of looking, turning my glance away, "--so where is he? Is he still aimlessly wandering around, or is he dead? Or is he dead and aimlessly wandering around? Reincarnated? Because frankly that's kinda creepy if that's true. Then again, that brings up the weirdness of immortality and frankly, I don't want to get in it."

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