She led me into the darkened room, the light from even the unusually bright candle insufficient to chase the shadows from the corners.
The candle sat on a small writing desk along with a stack of blank pages, their edges carefully aligned, and an ornate pen at the ready. To the side, a metal bowl and stone pestle lay. And opposite these items, a small bottle made of dark glass – its mouth filled with a metal funnel and its cork nearby.
She gestured for me to sit and I picked up the pen as I did so.
“So do I…?” I began and she cut me off with a stern command – as one used to commanding and being obeyed.
“Write. All of them,”
“All of…?”
“All of your lies. Every one of them,”
“I don’t…” I began, but almost unbidden the pen leaped to the page, pulling my hand with it. Or so it seemed.
The words on the page, scratched out by my suddenly feaverish hand, told every falsehood I had ever uttered or whispered to my own secret heart.
A sated stomach and the greedy “I’m hungry”.
Misplaced blame and the lie to reinforce it.
Plausible denial on my taxes. Slurred words behind the wheel. An accident – on purpose.
A page filled and set aside. Then…
“I love you (you bore me)” “I hate you (I need you),” “I missed you (leave me alone),” “It’s been too long (not long enough),”
The pen now a blur as the lies poured from me, transcribed to the page and then another and then a mantra appeared…
I’m fine I’m fine I’m okay I’m fine I’m okay I’m okay okay okay fine fine finefine finefinefine I’M OKAY I’M FINE.
Line after line until my hand cramped and the nib of the pen dug into the paper, tearing through the sheet to the desk below.
“Enough, “ she said and I pried the pen from my hand and dropped it to the desk. It rolled to the base of the candle, then stopped. I held my breath a moment as she leaned over and collected the pages, tapping them gently against the wood to re-align the edges.
With a practiced hand, she rolled them into a thin, hollow cylinder – then handed them back to me.
“Light them, “ she said, “And then hold them over the bowl for as long as you are able,”
I hesitated. I felt no release or relief yet. Was something supposed to happen or would it only be when the pages were consumed?
My hand shaking, I held the edge of the pages to the flame until they caught, then held the now burning paper over the bowl as ash began to drift down.
I tilted my hand this way and that to keep the fire going, wary as the flames got closer and closer to my skin..
With a gasp, I dropped the pages and shook my fingers – drawing them to my lips to suck away the sudden pain.
I heard a “tsk” of disappointment from her, as though I should let myself be burned, then we both watched as the fire consumed the rest of the paper and only ashes remained in the bowl.
She picked up the pestle and went to work on the clumps of ash, grinding them into the bowl until they were nearly dust. With a practiced hand and the aid of the funnel, she transferred this powder into the bowl – and knocked the last of the cooling ash loose with a final tap.
Funnel put aside, she corked the bottle and set it in front of me – then stood with hands clasped behind her back, her body language nearly shouting that she was done with me.
I looked at the bottle, then at her.
“Do I carry this with me?” I asked and she gave the slightest of shrugs.
“You always have, “ she answered, “And you always will,”
With that, she turned and stepped into the shadows of the room, leaving me with the ashes of my lies.
I paused for a moment, but only a moment, then picked the bottle and stood.
And stepped into my own shadows.
