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FLASH FICTION FRIDAY
Jezebel’s story unravels in a seaside town, plunging her into darkness and pushing her to the edge of redemption. Addiction consumes her, betrayal haunts her, and a forbidden love for a priest tears her apart. Her struggles spill onto Brighton’s streets, crafting a shocking tale that defies belief.
Trigger warning ⚠️: Black Humour
"LUCIFER"
My kids have moved out, leaving me to fester in these four walls, bored shitless. A widowed woman, I lost the love of my life, never touched another man, and refused to live like a nun. I’m a modern 21st-century woman, fuck it! Single, with needs—why not? I’ve always been reserved, clinging to my Bible, but now I’m ready to taste the other side. After five years of mourning my husband, I’m alive again.
People call me attractive, despite my fuller figure. My new mates—divorced and single women—urge me to pop pills to slim down. Then fate twists its ugly head. I meet a local dealer, straight out of a gangster film: thick hair, unsmiling face, eyes that pierce my soul, and hung like a horse. He whispers in my ear like Lucifer, his deep, rough voice sending tingles through me. I can’t get enough of his chat-up lines. Before I know it, we’re at it left, right, and centre, snorting at every chance.
Months later, I’m skinny—my curves vanished in a haze. Lost in the madness, I shove God out of my mind. Late-night parties become my world, filled with wild, unbelievable chats. But with every clink of a glass and every line snorted, reality slips away. Paranoia creeps in. My house reeks of piss, dirty dishes pile up, and I can’t be arsed to clean. I lie to everyone, including my kids, but I can’t stop—I’m having the time of my life, or so I think.
I end up with my best mate’s husband, as hooked as I am. She loses it when she finds out, and I deny it, leaving them screaming in the street. Stress drives me to lie more. I drink like I’ve got days to live, cheap plonk bottles littering my house like spent shells. I need a drink the moment I wake. Over time, I become a wreck—my mental health crumbles, but I drown it in more booze and drugs. I lose control, wandering my house stark naked, babbling in tongues, paranoid that everyone’s laughing at me.
Reality hits like a ton of bricks. I’m always drunk or high, the dealer bleeds me dry, and soon I face the grim truth: I must sell my Brighton seafront home, my sanctuary, to fund this pathetic life. Desperation grows daily.
“You’re proper in the shit now, you daft cow,” the dealer snarls, his gravelly voice dripping with rage as he drags on a laced spliff. I inhale the drug’s sinister, sweet chemical scent, its synthetic undertones driving him wild. His fake friendship vanishes like a burst condom. “What’s life without a bit of madness, eh?” He leans in, kissing my throat, blowing smoke as I struggle to breathe, terrified. He laughs, offering me a drag—the bastard doesn’t care. I’ve snorted away a fortune and start charging blokes for my services, becoming a bloody whore to score.
In the end, I broke down. My kids cart me off to the loony bin. I shake and crave drugs and booze for weeks, my mind slipping away. Yet, amid the asylum’s bleak walls and lost souls, a priest appears like a miracle. Fit as a young Bruce Springsteen, he says, “There’s still time for redemption,” his words a lifeline in my sea of madness.
He rests his hand on my cropped curls. “Let Jesus back into your life and banish the devil.” I sob, my breasts wobbling with my shoulders, hoping he’s the man I’ve been missing—a real man to love forever. I don’t care that he’s a priest; I’m determined to win him over.
Days later, the priest secured a volunteer job for me at a Salvation Army hostel. I slog away, scrubbing filthy floors and battling my demons. Thoughts of the priest consume me, dreaming of us together. Weeks turn to months, and he says, “You’ve come a long way, love,” his voice warm as we share a meal. “But the journey’s far from over. You seem troubled by matters of the heart.”
“Yes, Father. I’ve been pondering love and care.”
“Love is profound,” he replies. “It shows in how those who love us treat us.”
“Exactly, Father. If someone cares, they prioritise you, don’t they?”
“Precisely. Love isn’t just words; it’s actions showing our value.”
“But what if they don’t care as much as I do?”
“Sometimes, child, we realise we don’t mean as much to someone as they do to us. In those moments, seek places where you’re truly cherished.”
“That’s comforting, Father. Letting go is hard.”
“I know, child. Letting go is a tough act of love. But where you’re celebrated, you find true connection.”
“Thank you, Father. Your words bring clarity and peace.”
“May God’s love guide you, Jezebel, and may you find comfort in His embrace. You are cherished beyond measure.”
I try everything to get him alone, trailing him in short skirts and low-cut tops, fluttering my eyes. He doesn’t bite. One day, I follow him into the vestry and catch him, cassock down, reciting Bible verses in a trance-like monotone: *“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us…”*
His face twists with lust, cheeks red, grey eyes bulging. God’s the last thing on his mind. An altar boy whimpers in pain, bent over a table, trousers at his ankles, biting a Bible. The priest thrusts like a piston, gripping the boy’s hair, groaning. As he climaxes, he cries, “My God, Jesus loves you!” in shrill bursts, eyes wide, knees weak. He slaps the boy’s arse, then spots me. Ashamed, he collapses, pulls up his cassock, and rushes toward me, sweat dripping, eyes pleading.
Shocked to my core, I clutch my chest, gasping, and back out, slamming the door, sobbing, heartbroken. I flee Brighton, homeless, crashing on a mate’s couch. That scene haunts me, fueling my anger. I dodge my addicted mates, but they coax me with “just one more line.” Before I know it, I’m back in the game. Can I kick it again, or am I fooling myself?
I crave the love my late husband gave me. Meaningless hook-ups with strangers don’t cut it anymore. Maybe I used drugs to fill the void, but I still hope to find someone to fill it properly. Staring at my reflection, battling self-hate, I snort another line from a glass coffee table, thinking guiltily, “I’ll confess and repent later.”
“If a painter, poet, or writer falls in love with you, you can never die.”