corrina's diary

corrina page is a fictional character made up entirely in my imagination. any resemblance to real people, places, and/or things is completely coincidental and should be taken as such.

WARNING: The following may contain adult oriented material.

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with open arms and a smiling countenance i embrace you, awaiting the moment when i can plunge my canines into the soft flesh of your throat and initiate you into my world...

corrina page

nov. 10, 2001

her dress is made of material that's black and gauzy - cloth of the night sky - and it gently sways around her calves stirred by the warm breeze. she inhales deeply, feeling the fullness in her lungs for a moment before exhaling, slow like a long sigh. she's missed the kisses and the fruit, and the charming gentlemen in their white, shiny shoes dancing drunkenly to fiddles and banjos and the harmonica played by a one legged sailor comically wearing a tattered eye patch. he can't tap his feet to keep rhythm with the music so instead he bobs his head from side to side and taps his left hand, whenever it detaches itself from his instrument, asynchronously on his good thigh.

the flowers are blooming, their sweet scents thick in the air like slightly rotten fruit that smells too sweet, or perfume sprayed with too much vehemence and hope. the grass is slightly wet in patches, and the dogs roam across the lawn, their noses to the ground like anteaters, hoping to find some stray morsels of the deliciously rich and fragrant catered food, most of which sits in the bellies of drunken colonels and passed out sailors who will probably very soon vomit out their contents for the pleasure of the dogs. neatly dressed wives are scattered throughout, too tired and full to enjoy the music which sounds like screeching if you're listening from too far away and the moon has risen to it's peak for the evening and shines full and bright like god's eye watching you, blinding you, warning you. it, too will soon grow weary and wane until it's gone, then slowly wake itself up until it's the next full moon. by then you'll have missed your period. blood seeps from other wounds and not the one between your legs. your eyes are dry and you're covered in cum and the dress you had on earlier in the evening's been put back on backwards and your arms are trapped by your side. your legs spread and all you can think is 'what time is it?' and then, as an afterthought, 'how did i get here?'.

the woman in the gauzy dress is standing so close to you, but she doesn't seem to see you, and her hand trails gently across the top of the bushes that you lay beneath. her toes, in their black, pointy toed heels, almost touch your skin as she moves closer to examine something that catches her eye. and you watch her chest heave as she takes another deep breath and she turns her back on the bushes, and on you, and walks away with purposeful strides and you wish you could have just said hello.

<%=$p%>oct 27, 2001

there's a smell in the air. not even the wet fog and the cold breeze can mask it. underneath it all there lies a dank, rotten smell: clothing soaked in feces and urine and left over drink, skin unwashed for days and months on end, dirt layered so thickly you can scrape it off with a fingernail. pregnant senses sharpened like an eyetooth.

a vagrant - homeless, jobless, faceless, an endless litany of adjectives ending with less - stands in the doorway and even from a distance of several tables i can smell him. peristalsis of the throat and watering of the eyes, and anger like a flag raised in sudden terror, billowing in the tumult of heated emotions that have no description but feral.

he means no harm, but i do. and in a squalid recess of my mind i can see his throat bared and torn and blood staining the clothing already so filthy and dark. images of hungry dogs, canines flashing, flee across a screen, and then the moment, ephermeral and bleak is gone and there's a brackish taste in the back of my throat. my lunch, untouched, lies still and forlorn. the baby cries for food.

<%=$p%>oct 23, 2001
<%=$p%>on the night before her birth, the moon rose full and round like a womb. her mother's body hot and restless to relieve its burden. her thoughts before birth were pregnant with foreboding. unease in her bowels where she ached. breaking water and it's begun. fluid draining, dribbling, dampening her legs, darkening her socks. her hair like spiders' webs, clinging to fingers and rough cloth and gently pulling away from her head. each strand weakened by lack; follicles clogged and murderous.

<%=$p%>she lays on her back with her knees forced up and spread apart, a mask over her face and she's reminded of evenings tied in this same position with her eyes on the light bright enough to blind her to what was going on. and there's blood all over, smeared up on her thigh, matted thick in her pubic hair like cum, but this is not her orgasm, not yet. and the baby is born but quiet. she hasn't uttered a sound yet and her mother wishes she would not. but then it comes - a wail loud and long; it brings tears to her mother's eyes.

and her tears keep flowing and so does her blood and the doctors can't figure out why, can't stop it and there are sharp instruments close to her vagina from where this baby just came out and she's afraid and won't touch the daughter with the dark dark hair and the greenest eyes - where did she get those eyes? blinking and thinking this thought she watches the baby who's watching her, quiet now, worn out, eyes unfocused but seeing something, sensing something and before she turns away, her mother dies.

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