2015

I had licked the leather seats and spat at the chauffeur.

Been furious every time he swerved south. Cried when elderly people in coats crossed the street. They were innocent.

And I was guilty.

Now they were leading me down a steep set of stairs. Through a door. Out a masquerade ball. Into a secret. Down an angst ridden hallway. Past a curious closet with good values. Into a dream. Finally, over a threshold, and into a room with a boiler. It was hot.

They took off the hood on my head. They had put it there to keep me from figuring out the route they had taken to get me there. My destination. But I knew.

It was at that masquerade ball I met you.

Because we had masks on, we never really got to know each other. 35 years of marriage helped somewhat. But we never really got to know each other.

The secret? It was mine. And it was about to kill me. The angst was merely an echo. A mirror image. But the screams were mine.

The dream?

It was just a dream.

I was sweating. I didn’t like to sweat. The others were shamelessly cool and collected.

And I was guilty.

The room was dark, but well lit. One of the men asked me for my name. I gave him my name. Then he asked me for my soul. I gave him my soul. Then he asked me if I wanted something to drink. I asked if he had any sherry, but he didn’t have any sherry. Then I asked him to just get it over with.

He nodded in an understanding manner, and shot me in the head.

I never noticed the woman sitting behind me. In the corner. Crying while she smoked a cigarette. She was everything.

And I was guilty.