Carrying a shitload of emotional frustration, he made his way to the confession booth. He was stuck in a moment of emotions he had destroyed but was unable to heal from. Sam Smith was dead on in saying, “everyone prays in the end.”

“Father,” he began his confession, “I am unable to sleep at night. A ghost stops me from sleeping. I desire to sleep for it is the only time I feel alive. I feel alive when I sleep, and when I dream. The irony? Whenever I’m able to sleep, the very ghost that keeps me from sleeping is the same ghost that grants me good dreams. So much so that, when I’m awake, I only look to make friends with people who make me feel the way she does. I broke so many laws for her, and was willing to do more, but this turned out to be how I lost her. The love that I sacrificed. I’m out of my head; I’m out of my depth. In all these, I can tell she lusts for my life!

As he finished speaking, he couldn’t understand why everything was getting so loud around him. Not only was the music so loud, but it was also not the kind of music to be played in the presence of the divine one. On looking up, he was met with a glass of a well matured neat scotch from the bartender. “You need this!” She spoke.

“The ghost that haunts you, the one that got away, the girl you dream of is right behind you. She is coming your way. Do not turn, but if you do, you have to act like you have not seen her. Do not look at her, look somewhere above her, or even beside her, but do not look at her. As I speak, she is only five feet away. She is going to call you. When she does, pretend you don’t hear her. She is going to touch you; pretend you don’t feel her touch. Pretend you don’t feel anything for her!”

As the bartender was still speaking, he turned. To his right, he saw the priest listening to him make the confession. Right in front of him, the one he loved stood. He mightily tried to follow the bartender’s instruction, but the more he tried not to look at her, the more -maybe even deeper- did they lock eyes. In that moment, it was just the two of them in the privacy of their hotel room. The last place they had been together. Right there, she spoke to him.

“Put these cuffs on me, I’m your slave. I’ll be your fantasy, whatever you want from me, I’ll give you my everything. I’ve misbehaved baby, you have to punish me, I’ll let you whip me…”

As she was speaking, he turned. To his right was the priest listening to him make his confession. To his left was the bartender responding to his confession, the confession he was making to the priest. Right in front of him was the woman, the ghost over his atmosphere. He had to pretend that he was looking beyond her. Yet he desired her as a slave. He desired to whip her but pretended not to hear her.

As he turned to the priest, he noticed the priest was just finishing his sermonette before the burial of the one he loved. Holding his hand and standing by his side was the bartender and he was casting his eyes everywhere apart from the grave in which the casket was descending in.

Disclaimer: I do not own the image used in the story above nor any rights to it. To access the image and more of it’s kind follow the provided link https://www.artmajeur.com/en/xmarchand3/artworks/12946100/maelstrom


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