I knew I had done something forbidden – something terribly forbidden.
The faces around me were solemn and accusing, all those faces of people I'd thought I knew well and that now looked as closed as closed books. I'd even thought that they liked me.
No-one came forward to tell me what I'd done that was so terribly forbidden.
But I was all heated up about it, beet red in the face, cheeks burning, hands clenched, an electric feeling all over my body.
Solemn, silent, accusing faces around me.
No-one would talk.
That, perhaps, was the worst.
Worse than whatever I'd done that was so terribly forbidden.
– Leonard Blumfeld
Written for Sunday Scribblings' Forbidden. An improvisation on some of the guilt nightmares I've had.