Truth Telling

Once upon a time a young man met a young lady. In his presence, she effervesced and he was run over by his emotions into the dream of romance. In her words he found comfort and the missing companion with whom he could share his innermost being.

You see, this young man carried great pain and fear. Dark, shapeless shadows haunted his dreams. By day, memories that refused to fade into the fuzziness of history, abused and corrupted his present. His great need for a collaborator, a powerful voice that spoke his torture, a body that encased itself in the shroud that had stooped his shoulders, overshadowed any sense of self preservation, and he dissolved himself in her.

His blindness would be his undoing. Hiding behind a well crafted mask that had been decorated with the multitude of hurt collected from past lovers, the psychopath stepped forth into new pain. The soft hands that reached out to comfort, grasped for stories to embody and inhabit. The truth of his pain, stripped from him, left his soul exposed and her words like sharpened knives tore at it, leaving a husk. Pitiable and weak.

He awoke from his dream, but having been reduced to half spoken words and interrupted thoughts, rather than fleeing from his captor like a thrush suddenly set free, he lingered. As though from the safe side of the movie screen, he watched the husk wear away and crumble into dust.

His life ended yesterday.

She drags his shroud around, clutched possessively by her heart, perfect mascara drenched trails stretching from eye to chin. Her periodic soft sobs are pleading and girlish. Her adoring fans huddle against her for comfort, yearning for more stories of love and the mysterious agonizing man who had been her companion. His safely guarded secrets tumble vigorously out of the shroud, shocking and hideous.

The letter he sent me is safely tucked in my pocket, but burns hot against my thigh. I know how this play must end and how severe the theatrics will be. But those who are gathered here, grieving his loss, must want to know too. This is not my secret to keep. He trusted me. I must.

“Ahem, ladies and gentlemen…”

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