Feast of Self: Daily
Every day Deon sits in the same room across from a man who knows every lie he ever told, and calls it healing, until he realizes something has been feeding on the sessions.
Every day, Deon comes back to the same room, sits in the same chair, and talks to the man across from him. The man knows everything: every lie, every failure, every compromise Deon swore would only happen once. The conversations are brutally honest and change nothing. At first it looks like therapy. Then it becomes clear who the man is. He is Deon, older and emptier, worn down into something permanent. And this is not their first session. Between the two of them hangs what looks like a wound in the air, open and breathing, and from the dark something thin reaches into it every time Deon goes back over the same guilt. It is not feeding on Deon. It is feeding on his refusal to become anyone else. When Deon finally stands to leave, he stops at the door. Behind him, the older man looks up and asks: same time tomorrow?
Same time tomorrow, the older one asks. Deon does not answer.