Unchianed

(…)

His entrance was more an apparition, like the furtive leap from the shadows of a hunter finally deciding to show himself to his cornered prey. His presence drastically changed the room’s atmosphere; the murmur of conversations drowned, the music seemed to lower its volume, as if he had sucked the air and sound from the place, radiating a dark and cold aura that made several women shiver and bring a hand to their chest.

My speech was a carefully woven semblance, emotional on the surface, sharp as an obsidian razor in its intention. I highlighted his bright parts, those facets of charm and apparent goodness he had shown the world and, on occasion, even to me, in the early days of our illusion. I spoke of all the beautiful things he had, supposedly, contributed to the lives of those around him, making vague allegorical references to his energy, to how he infected people with a peculiar force, causing tickles of forbidden excitement in the women and an inflated, almost animal pride in the men who fell under his influence. I built the image of an incredible person, outstanding, were it not because I knew, and soon they would too, that it was all an impeccable mask, a perfect façade covering the being that truly lived inside, that entity demanding, with increasing urgency, to see the world without veils, without chains.

I described moments he had created, his supposed growth and evolution, painting the portrait of the ideal man many believed they knew. I saw scattered smiles in the audience, some looks of approval from those who only knew the husk, and others of surprise or veiled cynicism from those who shared some dark and vile secret with him, those who knew, even if only a fraction of the truth, the nature of his true essence. An atmosphere of guilty expectation, of contained morbidity, floated in the air like a stale perfume.

Nearing the close of my words, with Daniel by my side, his smile now an enigmatic grimace, his hand squeezing mine with a force that was beginning to be painful, his fingers like cold claws, I gave thanks for having met him. I gave thanks, with a sincerity that would freeze the blood of anyone who could understand it, for having had the best of him, knowing in the deepest part of my being that it was time to set him free, to unleash him upon those who had participated in his charade.

—It is time —I said, my voice clear and firm, resonating in the sudden silence—, for you to explore that nature you have denied so much, for you to show the world your true face.

Daniel’s initial reaction was one of surprise, an eyebrow barely raised, contained, slightly suspicious. Then, that predatory smile ran across his lips, his eyes shining with a primal hunger as he probed the guests, one by one, analyzing them, savoring their sensations, the fear starting to emanate from them like an exquisite perfume. Because my speech closed with the definitive acceptance that I was no longer his, that the freedom his deepest self so craved, now, at last, was his.

My words were received with scattered, mechanical applause, and many faces submerged in perplexity, a confusion that would quickly give way to terror. Daniel, with his attention completely surrendered to that audience that had been his in so many ways, showed a sudden rigidity in his shoulders, a tension in the jaw that made his smile tremble with an almost electric anticipation, his eyes flashing with a predatory light. His posture was that of an animal about to pounce, every muscle vibrating under the expensive fabric of his suit. He was so ecstatic by my final words, so absorbed in the contemplation of those people who, somehow, had pleased him and fed the creature inside him, that he remained nailed to the floor for an instant, completely ignoring my exit. Finally, as if breaking an invisible spell that his gaze and my words had woven, he approached the microphone. He curtly thanked the guests for their presence, who, visibly uncomfortable, bewildered, and with voices slightly trembling at first, expectant and with a certain contained fear, proceeded to intone a "Happy Birthday"—out of tune and improvised—a funeral dirge disguised as a celebration.

My departure was completely ignored by the attendees, too busy deciphering the enigma of my words or dealing with the discomfort of the moment becoming increasingly strange. This allowed me to leave without major issue, barely feeling the side glances of some of the women I crossed paths with, glances loaded with a mixture of stale envy, suspicion, and a strange form of anticipated triumph, as if they knew I was yielding the way to a feast I had already satiated myself with or from which I had been expelled.

Upon crossing the double doors, I reached the outer hallway of the salon. I had chosen this place not only for its chic elegance and sophisticated details but also for its careless, almost nonexistent, security measures. The place only had the main salon door as the sole entry and exit. I proceeded then, with a parsimonious zeal and an almost ritualistic dedication, to chain the doors, passing the thick steel chain through the handles, securing it with multiple padlocks. Each turn of the key was a metallic click resonating in my soul, like that of someone carefully tying the bow of a very special gift, a gift of pain and liberation. And upon finishing, I felt light, vibrant, almost painfully alive. Happy.

I stayed there, with my back against the cold wall of the hallway, listening. As I closed the heavy chains of the salon door, I felt how I freed myself from mine, ones much older and invisible, forged with years of blind love and self-deception. An unexpected lightness, almost vertiginous, invaded me, a strength I didn’t know I still possessed, and a freedom that tasted like fresh air after a summer storm, cold and clean, with the distant echo of thunder.
(…)