The sun is setting on top of an abandoned, industrial wasteland, where everything is littered with rubble and rolling tumbleweeds made of scrap paper and metal, spent needles adorning the ground like single, white tulips.
In the centre of which are leather-bound chairs in a semi-circle, where they sit, 10 colourless faces facing west.
The daughter of Oz starts, the self-proclaimed recipient of the most vile contempt, spite bleeding out of her eyes: “She loved me the most, She said,” her voice bouncing off the walls of apocalyptic nothingness, “and promised, more than once, that She won’t leave.”
Heads turned towards the one most spurned, relating to her words as if it was them who spoke, except she was the only one who found voice amidst adversity, who found courage among cowardice. “She crafted words at 160 a minute. She dissected my past and resurrected my fears, only to bury it in denial and false epiphanies. She put meaning in otherwise meaningless encounters, significance in the most mundane, and continuously molded me into a state of perpetual empty promises and white lies.
I hid myself away from Her toxic metaphors and double entendre–but She kept finding me, despite aliases and pseudonyms. I feel hunted, I feel preyed on.” She looked at them, that wide smile permanently etched out of her face with a carving knife–a description She once gave her; one that she removed with the strength and glory of a character who refused to take her assassination well.
“She wants me to forgive her.”
They nod, downcast eyes unified.
“Except how do you forgive someone you never really knew?”
The greatest sin voiced out in the middle of this imaginary land, where it found realism and solidity. The Greatest Sin began to grew legs until it stood on all four, collecting downcast eyes with its paw and transfiguring itself with each new perspective gained, with each old sight lost.
They sit, perennially frozen into characters She once knew, once embodied now turned fiction, harbouring secrets once cogent now myth, sun forever setting in the west, bringing with it the possibilities She once saw in them, now just an illusion that strengthens Her monstrous regret, as She walks away from the graveyard She created of disenchanted lovers and friends.