Celeste Brandenburg had a decision to make. 

For the last six months, she had toyed with the emotions of one Christian Donachie, a man who was head over heels in love with her. Though she was attracted to him and though he was what would seem in most ways a perfect match for the aging divorcee, he was poor, and the union would assuredly be frowned upon by her peers. Yet, with no intention of letting things move beyond what she called friends, Celeste could not bring herself to dismiss him, and she continued to send hot and cold signals that she knew drove him mad. 

Celeste had been raised to believe herself worth more than a small house and stress from bills, and that was all that Christian could offer her. Yet, she was torn, torn between a feeling in her chest that most would call love and the demands of her family and friends, which circumscribed her choices in almost every way. But she was no longer young, no longer supple yet still childish in her wants, and his attention was welcomed in her heart, even if she feigned annoyance with him to her friends. Though she feared she would never be truly loved again, if she ever had been, she had to think of her retirement, her future, and she made her choice. She would spurn Christian Donachie and send him away … somehow … as she could not bear to be near him and not with him but he could not be her future. 

Celeste and her female friends had a penchant for attending tarot readings and exhibitions by clairvoyants. It was a common pastime for bored housewives in the upper middle class area in which they resided. She did not wholly believe in any of it, but her friends did, so she gladly attended with them. Normally, she would leave these gatherings with a sense of ambivalence, on one hand, believing that it was an applaudable form of subterfuge and, on the other, leaving a sense that there really was something spiritual, something unseen to most people. But this Madame Defarge they had seen had impressed her greatly, and an idea had sprung into her mind. 

“Do you think that she does other things?” she posed to her confidantes, the same who had led her to reject any future with Christian, as they all walked to their respective cars. 

“Other things like what?” they asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know … like, maybe, love spells and that sort of thing?” 

“I know for a fact that she does,” one of her friends professed with assurance. “But she charges an arm and a leg for that kind of thing.” 

The revelation solidified Celeste’s resolve to end her fascination with Christian Donachie and his with her, and, when she returned to her home, she immediately looked up Madame Defarge’s contact information online. This will be the easiest way, she told herself. As her friend had assured her, DeFarge offered a wide range of services, including spell casting, so Celeste filled out the booking form and received her confirmation for what she thought was the following week. But, when she checked again, the date seemed to have changed to the day after the following day… at midnight. She whispered to herself that she must have read it incorrectly initially, and shivered at the thought of being there at that time. 

*** 

“You have come for a break up spell,” DeFarge croaked at her from behind a small circular table covered in a gaudy, shiny green lamé and covered with half melted candles of various colors and coins of different sizes and weights, from where Celeste could not discern. 

Suddenly fearful, as she did not remember having expressed her reason for the booking on the form she had filled out, Celeste merely nodded. 

DeFarge eyed her, not unpleasantly, and bid her to sit in the red, antique parlor chair before her, which Celeste did. “Now tell me, child, exactly what you need me to do for you.” 

“I need to make a man go away.” 

DeFarge’s eyes narrowed, “You love him.” 

Celeste was taken aback and put her hand to her chest, as she felt a sudden pang of truth. However, she had made up her mind and, in her petulance, and subtle greed, she remained resolute. “How I feel about him does not matter, Madame DeFarge. I need him to go away. I cannot be with him … ever. It just wasn’t meant to be, but I cannot bear to hurt him and then see him all the time.” 

The old witch placed her index finger on her rouged cheek in thought. “There is only one spell I know to remove him and not hurt his heart, not damage him emotionally … a potion … which you will have to give to him yourself. It will ensure that he leaves you and loves you no longer. He will feel nothing else for you after he drinks it. It costs $2,000 … but I will give it to you for $500 … seeing your desperation. But be warned, child. Do not do this if you truly love him, for the spirits do not take kindly to having their gifts refused so cavalierly.” With that, she pulled a small vial from beneath the table, as if she had already had it ready. “Put this in his drink. Then he will love you no more.” 

Before leaving, Celeste also requested a spell to bring her a man of means, for which she paid an additional $20, the price of which she found rather odd. As she left, she started to believe that she had been hoodwinked. Though she had the resources, $500 was still a steep price to her to have to pay all at once, though she would have paid the $2000 if need be. But she was determined to send Donachie away, even if it killed her heart. 

***

“Hi, Celeste,” Christian greeted her, as he took a seat at the table in the little diner. “I was surprised that you asked me here. You’ve … never wanted to go out with me before.”

“I figured that since we talk so much that it was about time we, at least, tried it once,” she cooed to him with a smile that hid her pain … and deception. 

When the server came, they both ordered the same meal, a veggie burger with fries, though she had wine and he had a soda. Her glass was empty in seconds, and she ordered another. Their conversation was everything she could have hoped for on a date, and he seemed to suit her in every way, as he always had when no one else was interfering. Her resolve wavered, her conscience telling her that she was being a fool and that she needed him. But her mission would demand its way back into her mind, thoughts of her friends and family mocking her for being with him. She played with the vial in the pocket of her pants nervously, unsure of herself and distressed by the warning she had been given. 

“I’m going to hit the bathroom really quickly,” Christian said, after they had laughed at a joke he had made at his own expense. 

You have to do this, Celeste! It’s your future! she kept repeating to herself in her mind, though her hand did not want to move and she had to force it with her other to empty the contents of the vial into his glass. 

When Christian returned, he beamed at her, so happy to be there with her finally, after months of pining for that very moment. And then he reached for his drink. Her heart spasmed, and, as she meant to tell him not to drink it, it was already too late. She sat and stared at him, as the look of joy faded from his face. She immediately knew that the magic had worked, yet all she could feel then was a clawing despair and she already rued her selfishness. 

He stood as if to leave, saying nothing, but looking at her without any definable expression. Then he lunged across the table and caught her by the neck. He began squeezing the life from her, his hands turning red and white with intent of death. Her face turned crimson, and she raked at his fingers, both scared to die and feeling as if she deserved it at the same moment. 

He let go as quickly as he had latched on, and he fell upon the table, unmoving. 

She clasped her throat, coughing, trying to recover from the pressure on her trachea, while crying deep sobs of emotional turmoil that threatened to choke her again. The wait staff rushed to the table with dire concern, having seen the attack, some to examine her and some to examine him. The manager phoned 911. But Christian Donachie was dead and no longer loved Celeste Brandenburg. He had been removed.

***

“I told you I wanted him to leave. I never asked for him to die!” Celeste screamed at DeFarge over the gaudy little table. The coroner had concluded that Donachie had died of a heart attack, natural causes, and the police believed that Celeste was the victim, and she could not find it within herself to make them believe otherwise. She could not throw away her future. No poisons or other chemicals were found in the soda glass, only soda and ice. Celeste could not even find the vial. 

“You asked that I make him stop loving you. You asked that I do so in a way that would not hurt him emotionally … not leave him wounded. I did just that, and it was the only way. Dead does not feel. You turned your back on love, on a gift from the spirits, and this is the price. Dwell no more upon it, child. Your heart has died in exchange, and your other spell has been cast. You will marry a man of mean within the coming year, and you will have everything you wanted. The spirits will come to you again. Now, leave.”

The spirits will come to me again …

The thought consumed her mind as she headed to brunch with her friends, who had decided that Christian Donachie had been some kind of devil worshiper and that Celeste was lucky to have escaped him. She made no effort to dissuade them from that belief. They pitied her, which she could not say that she resented, and they reinforced their baseless tale in her mind until she began to believe it herself. 

A year later, Celeste met a man, a banker, an ugly man and by no means a pleasant man in private, though he put on a good show in public, but a wealthy man and they wed shortly thereafter. Even with the prenup, her retirement was secured. She held no love for him, but she had done what was expected of her and she made do by being around him as little as possible—flying to Europe by herself, taking long and winding drives in her powder blue Maserati, throwing parties in her hometown with her friends, and spending eons at the beach, letting the sun further damage her skin and staring at the water … with a nagging ache in her heart for which she had long forgotten the cause. It was not the worst life, but it did little to satiate her and she told herself that the spirits had given it to her. That’s what Defarge meant. 

A year after that, the economy collapsed. It did not just enter a depression. It ceased to be. 

The government had become so corrupt and allowed corporations to raid the public sphere to such a degree that most of the population had been plunged into crippling poverty, mere slaves for the likes of people like Celeste Brandenburg-Clayton and her husband. The stock market, having been artificially propped up, hit rock bottom and began drilling into the abyss. The effects had gone global. Violence arose, and the wealthy found themselves imprisoned in their gated estates, though some, not so lucky, were dragged from their mansions and executed in the streets by furious mobs, their mansions ransacked and burned. The military was overthrown, as, when push came to shove, most soldiers, and even brass, were reluctant to murder their fellow citizens and they finally balked. It was a dire miscalculation on the part of the elite, but they had had a backup plan in place—private security forces, which now clashed with the rebel military and militias. 

Celeste watched the news from the comfort of her beachside home, which was walled off from the masses and had its own police force … and bunker … and she counted her blessings. Her husband had not returned from Amsterdam on time and she had not heard from him, but it did not concern her much, assuming that he was inebriated beyond recognition and with his Red Light whores. Her family was safe in their own estates, and she talked to them often. Her estate was spacious enough with its sprawling acreage and four-story mansion, that, though she could not leave it then, she did not feel cooped up, and she knew that she could weather a few days or weeks there without issue, maybe months, until the private forces put down those, what she, in her luxury, had come to believe were, horrible people. “Why do they think that they’re entitled to food? To steal?” she opined aloud. “They should have worked harder.” That her husband was a thief on a level she likely would not have been able to comprehend would never be known to her. 

As she tossed and turned in bed that night, a face kept trying to impose itself upon her dreams of waves and horses, a man’s face. She batted at it, trying to force it to go away, though it seemed familiar. She was then awoken by a tapping at the window. “I’m on the third floor,” she said to herself out loud. “Am I still dreaming?” When she went to the window, there was nothing there, only the moonlit beach and the gentle rush of the waves that she had longed for ever since she was a child. But the moon seemed darker to her, as if the whole world were covered by a shaded filter. She shook with chills, though the house was heated. “I must be getting sick.” 

Going downstairs to have a shot of whisky to steady herself, a whisky most people would never even have heard of much less ever had a chance to taste, Celeste took a sip and decided that it was enough, pouring the rest down the sink. A knock at the door followed, a heavy knock that came at a slow, steady rhythm. “It must be the head of security,” she told herself, knowing full well that no one could breach the estate walls, not with the dogs and patrols. 

Unthinkingly, she unbolted the door and opened it wide, allowing the salt-air breeze to enter the house. It smelled odd to her, but there was no one there. “Okay, Celeste, you're sick. Call the doctor in the morning,” she chastised herself, as she shut and locked the door. A hand ran up her leg and she froze. A million fears rushed into her mind. They’ve gotten in! No they can’t! Someone got in. Robbers? Rapists? People my husband made homeless? A hand grabbed the back of her head. She could not scream. She was paralyzed with fear. The security guards are having a joke! … HELP ME! Her head and body were forcibly turned around, and her eyes grew wide. Before her were dead people. Grabbing her were dead people. People from all of time. Lost souls, damned by greed. THE SPIRITS! As they dragged her into their midst, she could not help but look for Christian … who was not to be seen. 

***

The next morning, the patrol came by and knocked at the door. Receiving no answer and having a key to the premises, the guard let himself in. What he found remained permanently burned into his memory. Mrs. Clayton’s nude body was sprawled out on the floor of the living room in a pool of blood that reach to the door and into the kitchen. There were foot prints stamped out in it in all directions, and they seemed to trail off through the walls. Her arms and legs had been torn from her torso … and her heart had been savagely torn out. But what struck him most deeply was that, while she seemed to have been crying, she wore a broad smile. 

Dead does not feel.