Tears. Weeping. Sorrow. A funeral.
Everyone is here because of me.
No, that’s not quite right. They are here because of the man in the casket. For the father, brother, son, whose death came so sudden and unexpectedly. They are here to mourn this old man that they so loved.
But I am the one who put him there.
The cashier swipes my items across the scanner as I stare at the floor. I find it easiest to get through my anxiety by avoiding eye contact with other people. That’s why I only go shopping at night: fewer people to avoid.
“Did you find everything okay?” she asks casually.
Statue of Saint Bartholomew, who was skinned-alive by the Romans for not renouncing his christian-faith. In this statue, the sculptor depicts Bartholomew with muscles, bones, and veins for all to see. Draped around his shoulders and waist is his own skin. (Another Ghostly Statue:René de Chalon)