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Sin - Gluttony by Mac Clevinger, June 8, 2017
An unseen hand closes the path behind me, not abandoning me to the trials ahead but reminding me that this is a task for me to accomplish alone. What little light slides beneath the door reveals the bare stone that disappears into darkness, creeping up the rough-hewn walls to a roof that peaks to accommodate twice my meagre height.
My robe swishes around my legs as I step into the darkness, bare feet brushing against stone smoothed by the passage of untold pilgrims who had journeyed for the same reasons as I. The stone is rougher on my feet as I pass out of the last rays of light, a line drawn between the fearful and the committed; those who let their sins guide them and those who were committed to atonement.
Led by the passage of those who came before me, I wander through the dark until a single bead of light arises ahead of me: the flickering flame of a lone candle placed in the center of a circle etched in the stone. Seven unlit candles sat on the circle, the quiet shadows they cast seeming to shift and describe odd scenes that disappear as soon as I grow attentive of them.
Stepping carefully over the line drawn in the stone, I lift the candle from its perch and kneel in the center of the seven candles. Beyond the circle there was an absolute darkness, the light of the candle bright enough only to cast dancing shadows from its siblings, strange and familiar stories told by the shifting sight.
Eyes open to the darkness, I lean forward and light the first candle, settling back as the tiny ember of light grows. The shifting shadows stretching out from the freshly-lit candle do not disappear as its light grows, but take clearer forms as the light flare suddenly, blinding me for several long moments as I shut my eyes against the glare to open them to a stunning sight.
The candle I had lit was gone, the stone circle I had kneeled within replaced with rough wooden planks, the darkness that had surrounded me stripped away to reveal a bar, hundreds of bottles of liquor on display in the cabinets behind the polished wood of the counter. There were worn tables, battered chairs, and a thick odor of formaldehyde that barely hid the stench of vomit and body odor.
I stand, eyes roaming over the flashy signs and trophies hung on the walls. There were clouded windows but no door; dozens of seats with no one to occupy them. I step towards the long counter punctuated by bar-stools and pillars with pictures of strangers stapled to the wood, all sharing drunken, offended looks towards whoever had taken their picture.
A thick, white, mist rises from behind the counter as I take a seat at the bar, swirling into the form of a tall bottle before disappearing and leaving the bottle behind. With familiarity I take ahold of it, the removal of its cap as natural an action as bringing it to my lips.
I stop, my gaze caught on the pictures affixed to the bar. My stomach churns as I drop the bottle onto the countertop, the mist catching it as it bounces and nearly spills. The pictures are of me: dozens, hundreds of pictures of me picking fights, being thrown out of bars, or stumbling through the night barely aware of where I was.
I grab the edge of the bar for support as yet another picture follows the last, the exact events surrounding each image burned into my mind as I face night after night of black-outs and carousing, each snapshot a painful reminder of what had been the highlight of at first my weeks and then my days.
A shuffling behind me forces me to spin around, my sight overwhelmed by thousands of pictures pinned against the walls of the bar where signs and trophies had previously been. All images of me at my worst, trying to live a glamorous lie where all that mattered was where I was getting my next drink.
“It’s not your fault, really. You just wanted the world to make sense.”
I turn, eyeing the figure that had appeared behind the bar. They hold the bottle I had opened in one hand, the other pushing a wet rag along the wooden surface idly.
“You still just want the world to make sense, and it doesn’t. Not unless, of course, you look at it like this.”
They lift the bottle to their eye, looking down the open end to peer at me through the thick glass at its bottom. Despite being full, the alcohol doesn’t pour out, and I can clearly see their eye staring through me, their shoulders relaxing and a peace of mind I haven’t known for years seeming to settle over them.
I reach a hand out, grimly accepting the bottle from the figure as I turn back to the walls of photos that turn my stomach. Everything seemed to be so horrible, my problems too large for me to handle and the world around me falling apart at every step while I just stood in the middle of it all with no idea what I could do. I look at the bottle, remembering the only thing I thought I could do about it.
“Be honest with yourself. What can you do? The world is a terrible place. It doesn’t make sense, and you’re a fool if you think there’s any point in doing anything. Why not make your short time here something that you can control, that does make sense to you? Something that’s fun, that makes you feel alive in a way that regular life can’t.”
I raise the bottle to my eye, one view of the world seeing the painful memories of untold nights wasted in a drunken stupor, and the other seeing a simple joy. Warmth, community, and excitement; stories to share over a few opened bottles, no time to think about anything else but the hangovers during the day and the partying at night.
“Just take a sip, and you’ll remember how it works. No one gets hurt if you do this, and you can’t screw up your life if it only has one purpose. Someone else can deal with the world, you can just say no.”
I lower the bottle, nodding my head as I think it over. There had been a lot of pain, and maybe it hadn’t been the right reaction but it had become an amazing solution for me. An escape from the world and a warmth that always made me feel comfortable and safe; did I really need anything more than that?
Before the bottle hits the ground, the mist has already picked it up and carried it towards the figure, now looking at me with an offended look as they drink deeply from it. A look passes between us, a communicative silence that settles the matter in full. I did need more than false comfort, than a lie dressed up like the truth to keep me calm while life and opportunity slipped between my fingers.
And just because they had given up didn’t mean that I would be dragged down as they had been; as I had once been. I’d denied this part of me a long time ago, and would not sink back into the drowning depths. Gluttony no longer had that power over me, would no longer send me to seek a simple, blinding comfort as I hid from the world and my part in it.
The figure sank away, returning to white mist as the walls of the bar fell away to reveal the darkness behind them. I kneel, closing my eyes as a breeze spins around me, growing stronger and pulling at my robe as I wait.
When the air is still, I open my eyes to see the candle I had lit to now have a gentle blue flame, the candle I had been holding waiting expectantly before me as I kneel within the stone circle, surrounded by darkness, with six unlit candles around me.