Summer 1954 – Through the Lens of Hatred, No Beauty Shows

 

I grabbed a nearby cable and pulled. It came out the machine with a flash of sparks and an angry buzzing like a nest of aroused bees. I held the sparking end in front of me like a talisman. Cocteau’s creation looked at the cable suspiciously but continued to advance. 

“Stop,” I said. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

She curled her fingers into claws and lunged. I stepped aside, jamming the live end of the cable into her spine as she passed.