'Guilt's Orgasm': a short story by Kaitz Brebner from the upcoming book “This Specific Moment in Eternity”

Guilt is good at chess and at arguments. Guilt is always polished, in a black dress with a calculated neckline and heels. Her eyes are framed with mascara, as black as death, and within them flickers a rich blend of disappointment, judgment, and delicate undertones of hope. Like wine from vines grown near a row of dark blueberry bushes, supposed to absorb their flavor.

I have never tasted blueberries in my wine.

It's frustrating to play chess with Guilt. She is always one step ahead of me. As if she has already watched our game through a hidden security camera and knows my every move in advance. When she speaks, she does so slowly and precisely, each word calculated like a brilliant move by Kasparov, and a single glance from her is enough to freeze me in place. Even when it seems she's not around, I feel her watching me with scrutinizing eyes.

Guilt wakes up early in the morning. No matter when I wake up, she's already awake. Whether I slept too much because my body needed it or too little because I wanted to enjoy the evening, she's already there, sipping steaming coffee. her eyes holding a disappointed look that seems to ask, "Waking up now?" No matter what I do, Guilt is ready with an arsenal of weapons and will always find something to throw at me.

When it seems she has no new tricks, that she's out of ammunition, she pulls out the ancient swords from the cherrywood cabinet of my teenage years: the exams that i had to prepare to, the people I hurt over a decade ago, the times I wasn't sensitive because I was too drunk, the words I said to hurt, the words I said because it hurt.

Sometimes I catch her sneaking a glance at me through the heavy curtain, while I'm chopping wood in the yard. Her eyes quickly wander to the barn and the chickens jumping on the hill, but before she leaves, I think I see a hint of lust. She enjoys watching my muscles strain with effort as I swing the axe repeatedly. Sometimes I wonder if it's just hunger, and she actually wants to cook my flesh in a giant pot with wild mushrooms, cinnamon, and wine scented with blueberries, or maybe both. To fuck and eat, or eat and fuck.

I don't know how long I've been living with Guilt. Sometimes it seems like forever.

The furniture in her luxurious mansion changes according to the current fashion. Sometimes we're a successful journalist with a golden mane, and Guilt's living room is filled with posters of celebrities. On such days, paparazzi wait for us at the entrance around a red velvet carpet. And I feel guilty for having worked only 11 hours today, with 3 articles still waiting, while wasting my time on a meaningless evening with friends. It's funny, because in the distant past, we both lived in a dirty park in Jerusalem, and the goal in the chess game was to sit and drink cheap vodka on the stairs, and she called when i was too lazy to go out and stayed home watching a stupid tv show.

These days, Guilt's living room is designed as a spacious hall. It is filled with golden statues of Buddha three meters high, yoga mats, and the constant smoke of incense and sage. She comes to visit, looking a bit tired with clumpy mascara, when I'm eating a cholesterol-filled snack or nurturing a grudge. She multiplies, and in a warped, twisted, intrinsic contradiction, I am guilty of being guilty.

Guilt has no real values. Despite the serious facade she wears, she's an opportunistic player, always cooperating with the leading side in the war. Sometimes it's the career, sometimes the spiritual development, and sometimes "living life to the fullest" with as many drugs and alcohol as possible. She has no real agenda of her own, but the neckline of her dress makes me forget this very quickly. She is so collected and confident in herself it’s impossible to believe she has no purpose. That for her everything is a game. That she is a slut who fucks everyone.

I want to satisfy Guilt. To penetrate her with power, to see her eyes close and feel her nails scratch my back as she forgets all the strategies and moves. To do her roughly, so it hurts her too. To make her explode in a heavenly orgasm and disappear forever

What will happen when she disappears? Will she leave me her luxurious mansion and the giant hourglass whose contents are constantly spilling (God knows when she manages to turn it)? And what about the bed with the satin sheets? The satan’s sheets.

If not to fuck her, at least I would like to make her smile. Even though her smile is usually cynical, there is something pleasant in the sight of her beautiful green eyes closing. I would like to watch her as her head falls back on the rocking chair, and instead of focusing on the pieces on the board, just listen to the burning wood in the fireplace.

At times, it becomes clear to me - I will never be able to satisfy Guilt, or win an argument. The mechanism is designed in such a way that I will always be guilty of something, and perhaps it would be wiser to relinquish the attempt of control. The very encounter with Guilt feels like a punishment, a substitute for true responsibility, locking me in a position that prevents me from seeing other angles of the situation and the full consequences of my deeds. Stuck in a loop. I will never be able to bring Guilt to the longed-for orgasm.

Suddenly, I gaze at myself with compassion and see the beauty in imperfection—in flaws and wounds, in small mistakes, in the things I have said and can never take back, in the tiny cracks I have left in hearts, both mine and others', scars that will remain there forever. Even in that, there is something beautiful. In being human.

The game continues as usual towards the inevitable loss, but this time I don’t wait for another sophisticated move to bring me to my knees. Just when it seems like I have the upper hand, I stand up and turn around.

"Where are you going?" Guilt asks, but I don’t respond and start to move away from the table. "What do you think you’re doing?" The restraint peels off her along with the remnants of makeup. "Who would you even be without me, you are nobody!"

Fuming, she grabs her queen and throws it at me. The pain is sharp, but I keep walking. It seems to me that blood is dripping from the wound, but I don’t check, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

It seems I don’t know what really lies outside the mansion, as if I’ve never left it. What’s hidden behind the high fence, among the trees of the forest, where there is freedom, and no promises.

I wonder, maybe I created Guilt, and her mansion, the marble fireplace, the satan’s sheets, and even the hourglass that somehow manages to tick. That they all exist in my head. That I am the one chopping the wood for Guilt's marble fireplace, that I am the one slaughtering the chickens for her plate and harvesting the grapes in the vineyard every summer, and there are no blueberries at all.