A series of short fiction pieces continuing the stories told in concept albums. This week’s article is inspired by Ghost Town’s “Voodoo.”
Bad breakups aren’t fun for anyone, but when you’re the one who was cheated on, it hurts. I’ll admit, I only wanted to inflict pain upon him at first. I wanted him to feel what I felt, multiplied. After a while, though, it became routine. I couldn’t go one day without doing it. I was obsessed.
I saw him a little right after the breakup, when I first started. It filled me with satisfaction and power. Then, I began seeing him less and less. He would walk the other way if he saw me, leave stores without purchasing anything. He became a shadow of himself. I could see the torment in his face. For a bit, I could see the bruises on his arms and legs, then he started wearing pants and long sleeves exclusively.
It was such an ingrained part of my routine that I don’t even know how I let myself be so careless.
A promotion. New car. New opportunities. New apartment. I hired movers because I could afford it, but everyone knows if you want a job done right, you should do it yourself.
It must have fell out of one the boxes. Got kicked around in the shuffle. Somehow gotten in the street.
They said practically every bone in his body was broken, but he died from the unexpected pneumonia.
When I finally found the doll, mangled and soaked from a puddle, I was disgusted with myself. I de-charmed it, burned it, scattered the ashes.