Prometheus (LGBT+) ✔

6. Αἰτία (Guilt)

I'm drowning, choking. Every step I take, it's worse. I left Emile lying on his kitchen table. He hadn't eaten yet. Was he even conscious? I gave him a glass of water. That doesn't make it better. He's older, weaker. I shouldn't have drunk so much. Maybe his health is fragile. How can I look him in the eyes? I stole his daughter's pills. But I have to go back, again and again, and again. Forever. I have to.

The guilt lodges in my throat, gnaws away. It's almost worse than the coughs. Almost. Nothing is right and I always suffer, whatever choice I make. Sartre wrote, "L'enfer, c'est les autres", but I am my own hell, and I am theirs.

There is no greater punishment than guilt.

Emile was nice to me. We got along. We talked. He gave and I took. I'd talk with him for the sake of it. Small talk, but I don't even get that far with most of my colleagues. He asked me questions. As much as I don't want to talk about myself, to get attached, nobody ever wants to know me and it makes me happy. It's just a spark, but the guilt can't blow it out and it flickers up after every gust. I knew I was thirsty, but now that I've had a few droplets, I want so much more.

I want to go back already. See if he's alright. Talk more. I don't want to be alone. I'm always alone. Even if I'm not, I'm a ghost, or are they? They are fleeting, and I don't connect. I pass through them, although they are what goes and I am what stays.

I walk through several pools of light, but they don't clear up my head, don't enlighten my mind. Back in Emile's house, I wanted to go home and shower, but it won't wash out my thoughts, my turmoil won't swirl down the drain. I want to go back to the mindless chatter, to let it fill up my head till there's no room for anything else. At home, there's only books and music, and even if I blasted Mahler, it wouldn't be loud enough. Even if I read till my eyes hurt, those words would leave as soon as I stopped reading and in that frame of time before sleep, I would be both too full and too empty to escape myself.

I trudge up the stairs to prolong the sound of my steps. The concrete is bleak and ugly. There are a few unidentifiable stains. The light flickers. It reminds me of metal and car wrecks. Harsh, cold, old.

"Hey, Dante! I was hoping to catch you." Charles stands before his door. "You were out?"

"Yes. Took my evening walk." What is this about? The feeding? Does he suspect something?

"I've been meaning to talk to you about last Sunday – I mean, the one before yesterday." Oh, God. Here it goes. "Are you alright? You looked so ill at my door, but then I got a sugar drop myself and when I felt better, you weren't there anymore."

"Sugar drop?"

"Yes. I've diabetes. I didn't tell you?" My heart soars so fast so high that I feel dizzy. He thinks it was just a sugar drop. No questions about a bite.

"I didn't know."

"My bad. But you're okay?"

"Yes." I have to give him an explanation, don't I? What do I say? "I don't even know what I was thinking, but I was pretty out of it."

Charles nods. "I noticed. Though you still got me a glass of water."

"I did?" Christ, why did I say that? There's got to be a better reaction. "Uhm... Everything's a bit of a blur."

"I get that. I assume you got yourself home then? You were so weak."

"I was. But I started feeling better that afternoon, so it's okay."

"Yes? I'm happy. I was worried when you suddenly weren't there anymore. I wanted to check on you, but I was afraid to wake you if you were sleeping, and then I couldn't get a hold of you. I think your doorbell doesn't work."