Memories of One Who Remained Bare.
My friend and I were in France, during a strange winter, too warm to feel natural. The air smelled of celebration, and everything seemed suspended in easy joy when she invited me to meet some friends in Moulins.
The city, steeped in history, preserves echoes of the past and houses museums and a Gothic church whose towers seem to touch both time and sky. The bistro welcomed us warm and noisy. Laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses, and champagne dissolved any caution. When we stepped outside, the night breathed softly. We wandered aimlessly until, hidden among ancient stones, we found a well—silent, like a secret protected through the age-old embrace.
The heat pressed against my skin.
“Shall we take a swim?” she asked, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
I laughed, thinking it impossible. Before I could reply, she stripped and vanished into the dark water. My heart raced. Soon she emerged, smiling:
“Come… it’s delightful.”
Without thinking, I followed her gesture. I left my clothes on the cold rock and stepped in. The water embraced me like an ancestral hug.
Then I heard hurried footsteps.
When I looked up, she was running away—taking my garments, taking my trust. I was naked. Alone.
I left the well, despair burning within me. I ran to the group still drinking, exposing not just my body, but the truth. I spoke. I begged for understanding.
No one believed me.
Their eyes dressed me in blame. Anger. Contempt.
I returned to the well. Each step was a farewell to humanity—and a sense that that scene would still provoke reflection.
I plunged in. The water welcomed me gently.
In the depths, I understood: the world rarely bears the truth when it presents itself stripped.
My friend went on, clothed in illusion.
Before I disappeared, a gaze reached me—intense, human. Someone saw me. I held onto that.
And I sank, carrying only the name that echoed silently: Jean-Léon Gérôme.
https://digitalmehmet.com/author/rschumaher
Connect wih me via my website, Medium and LinkedIn
Leave a Reply