Disclaimer: The following story is a fiction work written by me. Any resemblance to the real world is just a coincidence. This text contains graphic violence described. Avoid reading if your age is under 18 years old or you are suffering from depression.
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Well, they used to say: Cleaner is the place, sicker is the mind.
I was a little hesitant to agree with that. But things almost went out of control. I noticed I was about to break for a second when I wanted to slash that neck.
It occurred to me that cleansing maintains things beautiful and pure. That used to be my way of thinking.
Someday, eventually, checking out all the things that happened, I could not see what was happening to our marriage. Or I regarded not to see it. Their absence was always present. While not dealing with an invented monster, their fantasies were fulfilled as he pleased. And I was just a part of the game.
I knew, I would not be able to fix his demeanor when I realized that is what he is. He is not changing by any means because he does not want that. It was hard at first sight, but then I embraced fate.
I felt somehow I used to be a beautiful dress. But the time went by and the dress became less colorful. And the beautiful details attached were vanishing at each cleansing.
There are about a few resemblances of the dress used to be and for the record, I did not slash his neck because nothing would change. I would just give him freedom. I decided he would live in his hell alone, without me. I left him behind.
The dress could be reshaped, in some way, maybe. But according to some experts, some dresses become trash after severe use.
I decided to organize things around. Over and over again. Cleaning. Organizing. And that made me go anywhere. I only had a beautiful clean place with an empty soul inside. I was ghosting around, watching other lives happening through my eyes.
Now I am a ghost with an old dress. I keep cleaning. I am alone. I do not want to talk to anyone. I think I wanted to but not by now. I am sure that I am not interested anymore in following the dance.
At least that is what I thought when I saw you, plain ghost.
You seem like a shadow of me. I didn't know where you came from. I remember that you smiled someday, and eventually I was curious to know you. Become a friend of yours. But of course this seems like it is not going to happen because, as far as I know ghosts do not talk to each other. Ghosts generally look for someone alive.
From now on I maintain my routine while you stick around from time to time with no talking, reminding me of Jack Schafer's strategy to talk to someone. Or make them curious until they become interested in why you are there.
I wish I could be a beautiful dress again.
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Photo by Yves Monrique
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