Page 36 of Laced in Longing

What am I supposed to do now? Believe a self-proclaimed god who claims my soul is his? Dismiss the entire encounter as a psychotic break? Call Dr. Voss and book myself into the nearest psychiatric facility?

None of those options appeal.

Instead, I return to my bed with a deep sigh, tugging the covers up to my chin despite knowing sleep will elude me for the remainder of the night. My mind races with possibilities too vast and strange to fully comprehend as I glare at the cracked ceiling.

One thing I know for certain: if Ash is real—if everything he said is true—then I’m so fucked.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MAVEN

Each inhale of the frigid air scrapes down my throat like broken glass, burning my lungs. I push forward, one foot in front of the other, ignoring the protest of muscles that haven’t seen proper use in months. The path to Mount Royal Park’s lookout stretches before me, daunting as it winds upward through patches of dirty snow and exposed earth.

Why am I here again?

The last few steps to the lookout platform feel like climbing a damn mountain. My thighs tremble with the effort, and sweat trickles down my spine despite the February chill. I reach the railing and grip it with both hands, forcing it to bear my weight as I struggle to catch my breath and drown in the white clouds that form.

This is pathetic. I’ve climbed six flights of stairs to my apartment every day for weeks, yet a simple walk up a moderately steep hill has me gasping like I’ve run across the country. Then again, I haven’t exactly been taking care of myself. Sleep claims me in the periods between work and visitations. What little food I manage to bring home sits forgotten in my refrigerator until it rots. My body is running on depression and the strange, electric energy that fills my veins whenever he appears.

At least it’s a decent enough day. The sun beams in a clear blue sky, blinding everything in sight, while the temperature hovers just below freezing—cold enough to numb my cheeks but not so bitter that I can’t feel my limbs. Small mercies, I guess.

I straighten, my breathing gradually slowing to something appropriate, and take in the view. Montréal sprawls before me, an interesting patchwork of old and new. Historic stone buildings huddle together alongside sleek glass towers. Church spires interrupt the skyline, and the St. Lawrence River winds through it all, a ribbon of silver-blue that dances with the sunlight, even with its icy surface.

From this height, the city looks peaceful. Methodical. Like it makes sense.

What a fucking lie.

I came here hoping the fresh air and change of scenery might clear my head for once and help me figure out what to do about my… situation. Ghost problem, divine stalker. Whatever you want to call the tall, faceless entity that haunts me.

Every excuse not to make this trip flashed through my mind this morning. It’s too cold. The climb is too steep. I should be working. Sleep would cure me. My time would be better researching more effective ways to banish unwanted spirits. But the walls of my apartment felt like they were closing in, and the constant awareness of his imminent appearance had my skin crawling with anticipation I refused to acknowledge.

So here I am, playing hooky from work, freezing my ass off on a platform in the middle of a Canadian winter, all to escape a being who claims to be a literal god.

The God of Longing. Who feeds on the yearning of mortals. Who says my soul belongs to him, promised thousands of years ago by gods I’ve never heard of, as if my being is just something to give away. A man speaks of a palace in another world where it’s always twilight, and where he’s been preparing for my arrival like I’m some long-lost princess returning from my kidnapping in the highest tower.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so fucking terrifying.

Every day for the last week, since the night he offered his name, he’s appeared. Sometimes in my dreams, sometimes in my waking hours. He sits in my apartment, perched on the edge of my bed or standing by the window, and talks. His voice flows like honey laced with yearning, rich and dark and ancient, filling the space between us with tales of a world I can’t begin to imagine.

He describes his garden with wistful reverence. Many of the plants that grow there exist nowhere on Earth, he says, and includes flowers that bloom only in twilight, their petals iridescent in the strange atmosphere of his realm. He tells me there are trees with bark like polished obsidian and leaves that shimmer with colors my human eyes couldn’t fully perceive. He tends it all himself, this god, his hands in the soil, nurturing the life he dreams of.

The food there is similar to what I know, but with subtle differences that make it extraordinary. Fruits taste like memories of happiness, whatever that means. Bread satisfies more than physical hunger—how is that even possible? And wine doesn’t intoxicate but instead clarifies, bringing everything into sharper focus.

I laughed at that one. If only.

He asks about my preferences. What colors I favor. What textures and sounds. Whether I prefer soft light or complete darkness when I sleep. Intimate questions that I do not know how to answer—whether that’s because he’s still a stranger, or because I don’t know them myself, I’m not sure.

He speaks of other gods too. The God of the Forgotten—Forgetting?—who steals memories from mortals when they become too painful to bear. The God of Regret, who feeds on guilt and remorse. The God of Gluttony, who has already claimed his promised soul and keeps them in a palace of excess. The God of Despair, who doesn’t cause suffering but sustains himself on it.

And the Nameless God, strangest of them all, who exists in the spaces between moments and feeds on potential, on all the things that might have been but never were. I imagine he’s the least hungry of them all, though I don’t believe any of them are struggling with all the horrors of the world.

Throughout these one-sided conversations, I remain silent. I listen and absorb every detail, filing them away for later examination. But I don’t respond or engage. Refuse to give him the satisfaction of my participation.

Instead, I’ve spent my free time researching how to rid oneself of a ghost. The same stupid answers greet me with each search: salt circles, iron, sage smudging, and exorcisms from half a dozen religious traditions. I’ve even deigned myself to learning of psychological techniques for dismissing hallucinations. I’ve filled a notebook with possible solutions, each one more desperate than the last.

But I’m confused. If he truly is what he claims, can I get rid of him at all? Longing isn’t something that can be exorcised or banished. It’s woven into the fabric of human existence—my existence. We all want things we can’t have, and yearn for what lies just beyond our reach. If he feeds on that, how could I possibly drive him away?

And the more time I spend with him, the less convinced I am that he’s a product of my imagination. The details are too specific for me to have created them. The way he describes his home alone is nearly enough to convince me. But the histories of the other gods and his devotion to me? Never in a million years would I think of those things myself.