The dirt road home was far from straight. It curved around hillsides, sloping up and down, disappearing from sight with every bend. It had been so long since Simon had taken this path that everything looked foreign and he feared that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Perhaps time had worn the desert down, scouring away at familiar rocks and landmarks, or perhaps he was simply not used to traveling in this direction. Whatever the reason, he found himself trekking back several times, hunting for landmarks that would confirm his road.
Rubbing his face, Simon hesitated on the borders of his father’s lands, unable to move. How could he return? What right did he have to ask for even the slightest mercy? He knew his father was a forgiving sort, he’d even scorned the man for being too lenient at times, but this was different. Simon’s betrayal was deeper, more intimate and profound, and he knew it.
And, of course, there was Bethany.
He remembered her as he’d last seen her, bloody and beaten outside the village, heavy stones littered in the dirt. The image of her tangled hair seared into his mind, hotter and more painful than the blazing sun. And in his mind’s eye, he saw the elegant curve of one dirty finger unmoving on the ground, the only part of her that had not been bruised or bleeding when he’d found her.
How could he ever tell his father what he’d done?
The ghost was quiet. She had come with him all this way, tormenting his every step with memories of how he had behaved. Every little flirtation, every clandestine wink played out in front of him, pounding out the knowledge of his sin until he swore he could hear her voice on the wind.
“You knew it was wrong,” she said. “You knew and still you did it. Couldn’t you see my husband watching?”
Some part of him knew that she was not truly there. Her voice was inside him, a lingering phantom that refused to be forgotten, a dark and fathomless shame that resided in his core. There was no escaping it, no excusing it, and no running from it. This was part of him now and he knew, as he’d never known anything in his life, that he would never be the same.
He hurt deep down in places he’d never known existed. It was like some cold thing had slithered up inside him, coiling around his innards and squeezing tight. There were times he did not know who he was anymore. All the decisions he’d made, laughing his way through his inheritance, wasting his time on vices and luxury, seemed strangely distant from him. Like it had all happened to another person.
Simon stood in the road, watching the sun’s slow progression to the horizon, sweating and exhausted and still he could not get his feet to move. The road was full of ghosts, figments of his past that floated up to him, rooting him in place. He saw himself as a child, defiant even then as his father showed him how to tend the sheep. There was a sneer he tried to hide whenever it came to the more menial tasks and he wondered at the hardness of his own heart back then.
Just four days ago he had been mucking pig pens, staring at the animal’s food with yearning. That was as menial a task as one could ever get, and yet he’d done it eagerly, needing whatever pay he could get. His pride couldn’t quite stomach returning home, even though he knew his father paid workers far better than the lot Simon had found.
But then Bethany had happened.
So many ghosts, he thought and started to turn. He couldn’t go back. That cold thing inside him was too dark, squeezing the life out of him with every passing second, and he could not bring it to his father’s home.
A voice carried to him and he stopped, uncertain if this was another phantom or something real. It called again and he recognized his own name. Scanning the horizon, he spotted a figure running toward him, waving its arms in greeting. It took a moment, but Simon recognized his father, robes girded and rushing as fast as he could to reach him.
A new ache constricted in his chest and Simon took a step forward. His father had seen him and was coming. How had his father seen him?
But that didn’t matter, not really. What mattered was reaching him. So Simon started running too, staggering a bit because heat and injury had taken their toll. When they finally reached each other, Simon collapsed to his knees, sobbing out an incoherent apology as his father embraced him. The familiar grip of his father’s arms undid him further and he leaned into the embrace, clutching onto all that strength and surety.
There were apologies that needed to be made and he tried to make them, sensing that cold slither of fear and shame as it started to tighten inside him. But his father hushed him, pulling back just far enough to smile down at him.
“You’re home, son,” his father said, still grinning.
All the ghosts fled, dissolving under that watery, joyful smile, and Simon leaned into his father again.
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