Reality's Illusion

Chapter 2: Bastian-One Year Earlier

When Sylvie died, it left a colossal hole in me. I put on the plastic appearance people anticipated, but internally, I wept. Continuing through the monotony of my daily life, I increasingly found myself lost in what my friends-well, the one I still had-referred to as my fictional world. The illusion of relationships on social media. The more time I spent on f******k, the more entrenched I became in the false advertising that existed on the screen. I believed those "friends" were concerned for me; they were what relationships were in real life. Sadly, they seemed to be the only things that kept me hanging on. But the thread threatened to break daily, frayed from top to bottom. The tightly woven fabric that was once my life had deteriorated beyond recognition.

My life had held value; at one point, it had meaning. It was everything I had ever imagined it could be. Without Sylvie, black clouds rolled through my mind, hindering my ability to think, eliminating productivity, stifling my creativity. My art was as dead as I was. But online... Online I could be anything I wanted, whatever version of myself I decided to show the world. I didn't have to be the pathetic artist who'd lost his muse. I wasn't required to be the sweet, sensitive man Sylvie had loved. My personal reinvention was still a mystery, but the idea of being whatever still existed in my soul didn't hold any appeal. Changing my persona had become my craft, anything to escape. Surely, there was art in recreating an identity.

That blue-and-white screen brought me comfort, the newsfeed a link to a conversation, touching base with people I'd known for years, but it also introduced the possibility of newcomers. The "friend recommendation" was the online equivalent to a safe introduction to someone new; at least it was in my mind. I always checked out the recommendations: other painters or singers who had known Sylvie-or people I barely recognized from high school or college. Yet every once in a while, some random person surfaced with no tie to my past.

Those were the connections I found most interesting, most appealing.

They were the safest, having no knowledge of the person I once was, or how all that remained of me was a fragmented shell. I had made several "friends" that way, people I would say I was close to-even though we'd never met and likely never would. That was my fictional world; the one my real friend didn't understand and believed was emotionally damaging to me. I wasn't processing my grief...blah, blah, blah. If I heard that s**t one more time, I might scream. Strangling him held appeal, too.

As soon as I logged in, the familiar recommendations bombarded me as if the universe had played some cruel joke. There she was, my Sylvie...only her name was Sera Martin. A perfect duplicate with the same striking green eyes, long, chestnut-colored hair, high cheekbones, and luscious, pouty lips.

I hadn't inhaled or exhaled.

I gasped, holding my breath until my lungs burned. I hadn't seen Sylvie in years. The day she had died, I came home and stripped our house of any reminder-every picture, every video, every stitch of clothing, anything she loved. It all had to go. I couldn't bear the weight of what the world had taken from me or what it would look like without her. If I discarded everything, she wouldn't haunt me, and maybe, somehow, I would manage to learn to live again if reminders of her didn't surround me.

Yet, her loss possessed me. Daily.

This girl. This Sera. Mother Nature had returned my Sylvie to me in a strange twist of fate. It was possible-after years of suffering, dying inside, barely hanging on-that my savior had come. Without hesitation, I clicked "add friend."

Sera responded to my request with a private message.

Sera: Wow! Are you really Bastian Thames?

Not at all the response I'd expected.

Me: Yes. Have we met?

My heart raced as my wife's doppelganger typed. I would have remembered meeting this woman.

Sera: Once, although I doubt you'd recall. It was a couple years ago at a gallery on the West End.

Sera: Is this the real Bastian? Not some lurker claiming to be the famous artist?

Me: A far cry from famous, but yes, one and the same. Are you certain we met that night? I remember the opening.

Sera: You were with your wife. I'm not sure which was more beautiful, her or the nudes you had in the collection. That showing was the talk of the local art community for months.

Me: That was the last opening I did.

It seemed like ten lifetimes ago. I'd kill to go back to that night, to have one more day, one more kiss, one more anything with my wife. The loss never got easier.

Sera: Are you not painting anymore? I hate to admit that I lost track of your work when I went off to college. I was a huge fan.

Me: Life happened. I haven't painted in some time.

Sera: I can't imagine you quit. Surely you just stopped putting them out for the public.

Me: No. I haven't so much as held a brush in five years.

Sera: That's a shame.

Sera: Hey look, Bastian, I have to run out, but I accepted your request. I hope we can talk some later. Maybe you'll let me pick your brain about a project I'm working on?

Me: Of course. I hope to hear from you soon.

Sera: Bye

Me: Later

My mind raced with possibilities as I searched her profile for information. I needed to know as much as possible before our next conversation-assuming one came. Twenty-five. Graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design with a Masters in Fine Arts. And holy hell, she was a sculptor.

If those were photos of her work, she had phenomenal talent. Despite how long I searched, her profile only provided surface-level information with virtually nothing personal. Her photos were with other artists or at galleries or in a studio. Her wall was littered with the proverbial f******k bullshit: posts by other artists, artwork memes, jokes, nothing of importance.

But one picture kept me from closing the page. Two beautiful women, scantily clad, one bent over and the other yielding a paddle, and the words, "Someone's been a bad girl." Jesus Christ. There were one hundred eighty-four comments and two hundred fifty-three likes on the thread posted by Maria Martin.

I clicked on Maria's name, assuming she was a sister or cousin, not expecting it to be Sera's mom. No mother in her right mind should post that kind of thing on her daughter's f******k wall, but the banter was cheeky and fun-and full of insight.

That one picture, one conversation, told me scads about Sera, not about her work, but what she enjoyed or possibly just fantasized about-intimately. Her responses ignited a fire in an area of my anatomy I thought had died with Sylvie. As my c**k twitched, that old familiar heat seeped through my crotch, and a warm sensation settled in my balls.

I stopped myself from reaching into my pants and rubbing one out. I was staring at dialogue-about a woman who could be my dead wife's twin-between people I didn't know. It was morbid, really. The creepy feeling of perversion pushed aside the lust, and I set my computer on the nightstand. Although, I didn't close the laptop for fear of missing a message from Sera.

Lying back, I stared at the all-too-familiar ceiling. I knew every blemish on the drywall with aching familiarity. The depth of my pain was so fathomless, I often wondered how I had made it to the next day without feeling the cold steel in my hand, without pulling the trigger.