The Facade Fantasy of Lust

In my life, the turning points had always seemed so straightforward, as if I were constantly heading toward hell.
I felt anxious about the gaze of life—both inside and outside—struggling to survive within these walls. All we needed was to talk about things that were harder to face than the bricks surrounding us. For comfort, our bedroom became a confrontation zone where I felt overwhelmed by inner guilt.

Katy—my honey! She was always drawn more to nature than to the other distractions of this modern era, so we bought this house. Nestled in a serene valley, the house felt like peace itself. The evening sunlight blazing over the flowers made it feel like heaven. With neighbors spread a kilometer apart, the loneliness seemed to strengthen our bond. The classic Mustang often took us on drives through the monsoon weather, nurturing an appreciation for each other that felt eternal.

Our lawn, with its neatly arranged wine shelves, gave us a perpetual sense of realization. The romantic fantasy of sex felt like justification rather than satisfaction.

On rainy days, with heavy winds outside my window, I often felt alone. Hours passed as I waited for Katy—waited for the doorbell to ring, waited to wish her a happy birthday with a bouquet of jasmine flowers she loved. Finally, the classic Mustang appeared on the road, its dim lights piercing through the evening mist. The leaves and trees swayed as if welcoming a Queen. But it was all just a fantasy outside my window.

Our busy schedules were completely mismatched; I was off on her workdays, and she was working on mine. By the end of her day, all she wanted was a glass of wine and a quiet night in the confrontation zone—our bedroom.

Sitting by the bonfire in the lawn with wine in hand, I decided to confess something. “Katy,” I said softly, “this is going to be hard for you to hear, but I have to tell you a secret.”

She looked at me, puzzled. “Uh, alright.”

“I love you, Katy,” I said.

She smiled faintly. “I know.”

I hesitated, then suggested, “Maybe we should call it a night?”

She replied, “I’ll finish this wine and let the night carry me into a peaceful sleep.”

“No, Katy,” I said firmly.

She sighed. “Mike, all I need is a peaceful night. Work, flowers, weekends—it’s all just a burden. At the end of the day, everything boils down to material gains, whether it’s flowers or money. I’m tired tonight. I’ll sleep in the other room. You can have your zone.”

I returned to my room and sat by the window, lost in another fantasy. The night whispered, I wish I could lose my memories, my love. I love this dark loneliness. The dim light reminds me of Death Valley—not a nightmare, but a reflection of my pain. The world of our love is full of thorns disguised as flowers. I wish I could lose my memories.

From the other room, Katy called, “Mike, can I have another glass of wine?”

Days turned into weeks, and I felt increasingly restless, alone, and anxious. Our home became an asylum, our madness its architects. The only solace I found was in the fantasy outside the window.

Then, everything changed. Katy revealed she was pregnant. But her words shattered me: “Mike, this isn’t your baby—it’s your son’s.”

Shocked, I demanded, “How?”

She confessed, “It happened when we were alone. You know how it is…”

Rage consumed me. I grabbed a knife and—driven by madness—killed her and the unborn child. She bled out, crying and begging for help. I demanded to know where the man was. When she said she didn’t know, I found him and killed him too.

I buried their bodies under the road outside my window, where my fantasies had always been buried. No one would ever know.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and I woke up. The newspaper had arrived, and I realized it was all just a nightmare.

At the office, I told Katy—my girlfriend in real life, but my wife in the dream—about the nightmare. Instead of understanding, she argued with me.

“I’m done with you, Mike,” she said coldly. “Let’s break up.”

She left, and I was left pleading like a beggar, insisting it was just a dream. But she didn’t care.

I realized too late that all we needed was to talk about our problems instead of avoiding them. But she wasn’t ready for even a single word.

Katy, I miss you.

Lust

Mike’s dream blurs into reality in this psychological story about emotional isolation, inner guilt, and the cost of silence. Trapped between love and loneliness, he faces a nightmare that pushes him to the edge. A heartbreaking exploration of unspoken pain, lost connection, and the lingering ache of regret.

5

This story follows Mike, a man whose peaceful life with his partner Katy unravels into loneliness, emotional distance, and a haunting nightmare. Their isolated home, once a sanctuary, becomes a symbol of the silence growing between them. In his nightmare, Katy reveals a devastating betrayal, leading him into violence and madness. But when he wakes up, he finds the damage in reality is emotional, not physical—yet no less painful. Katy leaves him, unable to understand his turmoil. In the end, Mike is left alone, consumed by regret, longing for the simple conversations that might have saved them.