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Fiction Becomes a Sin

And millions are guilty

By DamilolaPublished 3 years ago 8 min read
Fiction Becomes a Sin
Photo by pure julia on Unsplash

Alternative Reality

I’ve aged, but not like cheese or fine wine. My breasts these days are getting lower and lower. My young son bites when he latches. My husband says he loves them as low as they sit.

Lying bastard.

I got rid of all the mirrors going past my shoulder.

For months, I slept alone every night. My husband works the night shifts. My hands were always stretched out to his side of the bed for a cuddle. I would reach out to my lover, but he was missing. I listened to the sound of my heartbeat, and it grew and grew into monstrous anxiety. The kids were driving me crazy during the day. My nipples were red from painful latches. The boredom ate into me like a parasitic bug. I stopped trying to look good.

I lost my fucking mind.

When he came home, all he cared about was food. Not one of my many requests to let out my feelings were honoured. You’re emotional. You’re ungrateful. You complain a lot. I just want to sleep. I am too tired for a talk tonight. Let’s talk tomorrow. So many excuses. Tomorrow was stuck in transit, tomorrow never came, and we never talked.

It was food, sex, sleep and repeat.

So I took refuge in the only man we both run to with our problems, the mayor. It wasn’t long before his comforting hands started to slip into my thighs.

We managed to keep the affair a secret for years. The mayor would drop by on Saturdays to check on the family he was now a part of. He would sit on the patio with my husband, beer in hand, they would play card games and talk about old times.

I only wore makeup on Saturdays.

But the gig is over, because a few hours ago, I heard a loud bang.

My husband has shot himself.

I blacked out.

You might call me a repulsive and selfish woman. But you might want to go a bit easy on me. Why? Well, because this story is just a figment of my warped imagination.

My husband doesn’t exist, he never died, and my life is far from complicated.


I’m a very simple woman. I write, eat, work, sleep, and repeat. This town, however, is a complicated web of outdated traditions, spun with hypocrisy, self-righteousness and inflated egos.

Whilst the mayor actually exists, the mayor is a piece of shit, his name is Gilbert and I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.

I keep to myself a lot, there’s barely any opportunities for social interactions anyway. The town is empty, I barely have friends and the majority of people here are retired. Everything here feels like we are in the 1800s, the rules are strict and the town is blinded by traditions that are no longer relevant.

We have a library, a church, a few supermarkets and that’s about it. Nothing special, nothing interesting. What can a girl do in such a dead town, but bury herself deep in her journals, making up stories about ghosts and lovers that don’t exist?

The little black book I wrote this story in is the only thing that keeps me alive. It’s full of short and simple fictional stories like this. A sin and a consequence, stories so far from my real life. I’m 27, with no prospects of love. I don’t know how it feels to be kissed. I’ve never had a boyfriend or a lover, even though I so badly wish for one.

My breasts are very tiny, and they sit way higher than I’d want. It’ll be nice to have some kids, I’ve heard kids bring purpose to a bleak existence.

My parents died in a car accident 4 years ago, leaving me no choice but to live with my overbearing aunt. She later kicked me out for contesting her attempt on my inheritance. My job isn’t so great, I work in the town’s book club as a secretary and spend the majority of my time processing all the finances and investments the mayor keeps for himself.

He pays me £3.75 an hour, 60% less than the legal wage. But what can I do? I’m powerless and indebted to him. It’s the only job that came with a place to live, far away from my autocratic aunt. For that, I rewarded him with long hours and obedience even when he treats me like pig’s shit.

I hated my life, until luck finally smiled on me.


Last week, a gentleman came by to the mayor’s office. The way he was dressed indicated that he’s another investor, investing in the failure that is our book club. The mayor has a talent for manipulating people into giving away their money. All he spends it on is prostitutes from the city and expensive bottles of Chardonnay. He thinks no one knows about it, but nothing ever gets past me.

I see everything.

Despite all this, he manages to present himself as a God-fearing man who respects the town and its many traditions.

“Could you tell Mr Gilbert I’m here please darling, I have a 5 o’clock appointment,” the man said, with a huge smile on his face. Investors that visit usually carry a briefcase like his. God forbid the mayor uses technology or the bank as he fears that somehow, his embezzlement will be traced. But even if it were to be traced, the mayor has an indestructible hold on the town. He’s like their shepherd, and the town members are the sheep. They’re lost without his directions and feigned benevolence.

As I walk towards his office, these thoughts filled my mind, evoking a strong wave of anger. This man is stealing so much money from the town, yet he pays me a measly amount and works me till my legs are stiff and my fingers bleed.

The mayor, however, wasn’t in his office and as I walked back to my desk, I realised he had just come in, along with the president of the book club. They walked in like two lost kids, after numerous attempts at pulling at a door that has a push sign on it. The mayor told the investor to come back later, a tactic he employs to hide treacherous meetings like this from the president.

After he left, I noticed the idiotic pair had a congregation of people waiting at the corner of the building. The mayor had something else to say. Something so important, he had invited the president of the book club and 14 other people.

They all took turns to sit down, and I was asked to stand in front of my desk, and pack my belongings.

At first, I was confused, I don’t recall doing anything that would warrant a meeting. Especially one with 14 members of the town’s disciplinary committee. But as I packed my things, I realised something was missing. It’s my black journal. The mayor has gotten his filthy hands on it. Immediately, I knew what was to come.

I’m fucked.

“Wilma, we are here today because we need to discuss something very important with you.”

The eldest member Mr Shelton spoke first, scanning through the room for approval.

“We found something that is very worrying and we believe you’re a danger to this community, I assume you already know what we are talking about.”

He’s right, I know exactly what he’s talking about. In addition to the story about a non-existent cheating wife I had written, I had also written stories of a serial killer that was haunting the town who later turned out to be the mayor. There are also stories of the town being invaded by a much more intelligent civilisation because the town leaders are stupid and inadequate. There’s a story of a magical disease that turned people’s heads into bananas.

I even wrote one about the mayor’s transformation into a toad by a magician, and how the toad later got run over by a truck. But they are exactly what they are, fictional stories. Only, 16 people completely disagree with me.

“They are just stories Mr Shelton, I don’t understand why you’d read my jour—”

Before I could finish, Ms Wiseman, a very short and grumpy lady interrupted me.

“These are not stories! These are representations of what you think of us, and we think you should leave the town immediately!”

“Yes! You need to leave!” they all said in unison, like a creepy cult in a sacrificial ceremony.

“We think we’d feel safer when you’re gone,” the mayor joined in, I was surprised he hadn’t joined in much earlier.

This must be a huge joke, I thought. No way I’m getting fired from my job for writing fictional stories in my private journal. “You can’t do this,” I finally managed to say. “You can’t kick me out for something like this! They’re just stories!”

But all my pleas and arguments fell on deaf ears and I was ordered to pack my things and leave the next morning. It’s winter and the snow is rising, the only choice I had was to go to my aunt's village a few miles down. We haven’t spoken for years and I knew it wouldn’t be much of a welcome. I can only imagine her face when I tell her I’ve been fired for imagining the mayor as a toad with a banana head.

It’s going to be a shit show.

The whole night, I tried to wrap my head around the injustice of invading my privacy and kicking me out on one of the coldest days in winter. Didn’t I call him a kind man? Surely that must flatter him a bit.

Doesn’t that further prove that it’s all fictional? That the stories are just figments of my imagination, that my journal is my escape from the monotonous and miserable life I’ve been living?

The next morning I set out on my exile from the town I had called home for the last 4 years. It was freezing and the snow had risen even higher than I had expected. I walked along the route to the bus station, my few belongings in hand. Throughout the journey, I regretted my existence, but I walked as fast as I could to catch the cheapest bus at 9. And then I noticed a familiar car in front of me, it’s the investor that visited the office the previous day. Immediately he sees me, he comes running out of his car.

“My car is stuck in the snow, I don’t think it’ll go any further than this!” he shouted, as he runs back to his car to get the briefcase he had with him the previous day.

“Could you please give this to the mayor, I’m in a rush and need to get going.”

A good morning would have been nice, but I guess a briefcase would do. Before I could say another word, he hands me the briefcase, speeding towards his car like he was being chased by a green monster with 12 heads. “I’ll send the Mayor a message,” he said, driving off into the thick fog in front of me.

I opened the briefcase, and just like I had suspected, it was filled with money and a receipt for a non-existent book fair that supposedly happened last Saturday.


I thought about it.

It’s not like I can walk a few minutes back to the town, after all, I’m a huge danger to the community and my presence will cause chaos and death.

It’s not like I can speak to the mayor and tell him about the money, I’m armed with stories that could turn him into a toad.

So I missed the bus and got on another one. One that goes all the way to a city about 60 miles south.

The mayor kicked me out, but legend says till today, he’s still searching for me.

fact or fiction

About the Creator


poet, wanderer, writer.

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