Tired Parody-A Repo the Genetic Opera fiction
Blood is such a pretty color, ruby and scarlet with darker red undertones. As it dries, it goes sticky and brown and unpleasant, but fresh blood is always pretty. I do not mind the taste of it on my lips-‘Not mine’ memory hisses and provides me the image of this face on another body- or the feel of it cooling on my fingers. Because blood is sweet; whether pulsing through a GeneCo designer heart or cooling in tacky trails on flesh, blood is an elixir as heady and potent as pure Zydrate.
My dear brother does not understand this, despite the fact that he has bathed in far more blood than I-that temper will be the death of him some day. He twists the knife and fastidiously peels the clothing stained with scarlet from his body, his face twisting in some tired parody of disgust. But we are all tired parodies. He gained nothing from our dear father but that vicious temper and the desire to turn father’s company into his own private playground. Did you know he was jealous of Nathan Wallace? Oh, yes. Nathan was everything Luigi desired to be, a licensed killer, free to play brutal games on living flesh. But he never had the touch. His incisions were never clean enough and he always managed to damage the organs. It was much worse when the victim-forgive me, the client-did their best to escape. You could not tell a heart from a liver when he returned it. So father would not let him become a Repo man, like Nathan. He gets too much pleasure from the maiming, and too little in doing the job.
And my sister dear, oh, she revels in bloodplay too, though it’s her own blood she wants spilling. Call her a scalpel slut or a Zydrate zombie and you wouldn’t be far wrong. For her, happiness is a warm scalpel and enough Zydrate to drown in. She’s far too infatuated with the knife. She long ago stopped caring about anything but how she could change herself. She’s become a parody of the person she was before the knife. I don’t even think she remembers what her face looked like before her first elective surgery.
I remember. I remember all her faces, from the good, the bad and the ugly. She never remembered, (though how she remembers anything at all when her heart pumps more Zydrate than blood, I’ll never know) but one of the first faces I wore over my own was hers. Foolish sister.
Sometimes, I think I am the most tired parody of all. I am neither the once-favored son, nor the over-indulged daughter. I have always been the invisible one, a disgusting clown to dear father. Oh, yes, I heard him call me that once, when he did not think I could hear. But my ears are everywhere, in the genterns who adore me and the siblings who would rather I not be around. After all, they are only too happy to tell me anything… unpleasant… that our dearest father calls me. There is a reason I wear a face not my own. Because even when I was a child, my face was not my own. My father only saw my mothers face in mine, and I only saw his in the mirror. So I resolved not to have either of their faces.
Perhaps it is a form of Necrophilia, to revel in wearing the faces of a dead women (or not so dead, in the case of my beloved sibling-though the case can be argued that she’s more dead inside than the rest of us) but I cannot find it in me to care. And blood will always be beautiful to me. Because when the knife opens my flesh and the blood spills, while they replace my face, that’s the only time I feel truly alive.
(cut lines from the song "Gold" Repo-the Genetic Opera Soundtrack)
My dear brother does not understand this, despite the fact that he has bathed in far more blood than I-that temper will be the death of him some day. He twists the knife and fastidiously peels the clothing stained with scarlet from his body, his face twisting in some tired parody of disgust. But we are all tired parodies. He gained nothing from our dear father but that vicious temper and the desire to turn father’s company into his own private playground. Did you know he was jealous of Nathan Wallace? Oh, yes. Nathan was everything Luigi desired to be, a licensed killer, free to play brutal games on living flesh. But he never had the touch. His incisions were never clean enough and he always managed to damage the organs. It was much worse when the victim-forgive me, the client-did their best to escape. You could not tell a heart from a liver when he returned it. So father would not let him become a Repo man, like Nathan. He gets too much pleasure from the maiming, and too little in doing the job.
And my sister dear, oh, she revels in bloodplay too, though it’s her own blood she wants spilling. Call her a scalpel slut or a Zydrate zombie and you wouldn’t be far wrong. For her, happiness is a warm scalpel and enough Zydrate to drown in. She’s far too infatuated with the knife. She long ago stopped caring about anything but how she could change herself. She’s become a parody of the person she was before the knife. I don’t even think she remembers what her face looked like before her first elective surgery.
I remember. I remember all her faces, from the good, the bad and the ugly. She never remembered, (though how she remembers anything at all when her heart pumps more Zydrate than blood, I’ll never know) but one of the first faces I wore over my own was hers. Foolish sister.
Sometimes, I think I am the most tired parody of all. I am neither the once-favored son, nor the over-indulged daughter. I have always been the invisible one, a disgusting clown to dear father. Oh, yes, I heard him call me that once, when he did not think I could hear. But my ears are everywhere, in the genterns who adore me and the siblings who would rather I not be around. After all, they are only too happy to tell me anything… unpleasant… that our dearest father calls me. There is a reason I wear a face not my own. Because even when I was a child, my face was not my own. My father only saw my mothers face in mine, and I only saw his in the mirror. So I resolved not to have either of their faces.
Perhaps it is a form of Necrophilia, to revel in wearing the faces of a dead women (or not so dead, in the case of my beloved sibling-though the case can be argued that she’s more dead inside than the rest of us) but I cannot find it in me to care. And blood will always be beautiful to me. Because when the knife opens my flesh and the blood spills, while they replace my face, that’s the only time I feel truly alive.
(cut lines from the song "Gold" Repo-the Genetic Opera Soundtrack)