Vampira was sex and death all wrapped up in a tight black tattered dress with a slit up the leg. She had soft raven hair, long phallic nails, dark lips, and commanding eyebrows arched just so. And she floated through the night's eerie haze, through the airwaves of the family television and right into the living room to let out a brash, horrifying, yet pleasurable scream. She would look right into the camera, right into your eyes, calm after such a gratifying orgasmic release and say with a coy smile, "Screaming relaxes me so," right before she introduced the nightly flick.
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I felt conflicted. Conflicted by my exhilaration for the impending tour and the museum’s haunting artifacts and, yet, simultaneously distressed by the fetishization (both my own and owner’s) of relics of tragedy.
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BY AURORA ROSE DE CROSTA