She Digs, He Digs

“She Digs, He Digs”

In the nightclub's oppressive embrace nestled in the heart of Paris, the air swells with a stifling weight, as discordant music pulsates with a mocking rhythm—Kanye West’s “Gold Digger,” featuring Jamie Foxx. The lyrics twist and turn like a desperate plea, their shadows capering erratically as if ensnared in an infinite maze, echoing through the dimly lit space.

I, Hugo, meander through these serpentine streets of Montmartre, a fragile insect caught in a tempest, a forsaken soul clutching a nearly empty bottle, spinning tales even I struggle to believe. One hand grips the last remnants of wine, the other an empty tube where the desperate congregate in shadowy corners. The fire of desperation ignites in my eyes, a flickering ember smothered by a thick fog of shame.

Lighting another cigarette, the smoke rises and entwines with the haze—a fleeting, illusory moment of calm amidst this whirlwind of despair. Here I stand, a forgotten doorman, overlooked by the self-proclaimed elite perched upon their lofty thrones. Ensnared in this pit of poverty, I wrestle with existence, while my muse, Josephine, flits about like a specter, perpetually just out of reach. She is away on a so-called study trip in Hong Kong, sparkling like a diamond, my beautiful girl.

I am submerged in sorrow, ensnared in this unending cycle, as the jarring music plays on. "Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger, but she ain't messin' with no broke niggaz." I shake my head. Yes, all beautiful women are gold diggers. No, I possess no wealth, so Josephine cannot be a gold digger. Can she?

As always, I seek to escape the clutches of hardship and despair by clutching a little ghost imprisoned in a diminutive glass tube. Originating from Thailand, this spectral being embodies a lifeless infant, its soul simmering with rage. I hold it tightly, cursing those who make me feel small, those who bask in a life far more splendid than my own. I curse the parents who thrust it into this world, naked and empty, upon a barren floor.

In the swirling smoke, I drift like a lost spirit, while the patrons engage in hushed murmurs, their whispers quickening my heartbeat. "Did you hear? Josephine's not in Hong Kong for a study trip. She's with Victor, that affluent man. Josephine is a gold digger. She’s made it." "A married jerk who shatters hearts like they’re mere trifles. Such bitterness digs deep into my soul,” another voice joins in. “Yes, Victor is a Sugar Daddy. Josephine is the Sugar Baby. Bingo!"

I draw a drag from my cigarette, the smoke escaping my lips like secrets I fear to unveil. Panic flares like a firecracker in the night, and I, Hugo, lean in, desperate to uncover the truth hidden within this suffocating fog. "What? No... we were making love just a week ago before Josephine's departure to Hong Kong." "Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger, but she ain't messin' with no broke niggaz."

The lyrics seep into my consciousness, a chill creeping in. I grasp the glass tube tighter. I curse those fortunate souls, basking in their warmth. I curse my ancestors for this interminable night. I curse the voices that drift to me, intentionally loud enough to ensure I overhear.

Oh, Hugo! Oh, Josephine! Just one week ago, in my cramped apartment overlooking the Seine, sunlight filtered through the cracks, and Josephine, radiant, wrapped in lace demanding attention, gazed into the distance, sensing the storm approaching. "Hugo, we really shouldn't do this." Yet desire pulls me nearer, whispering my dreams, savoring the struggle. "This is our moment; let the world witness our love! We’ll make it undeniable!" Josephine's lips tremble, "It should remain hidden... it feels so inappropriate, so primitive…” My girl, Josephine, tries to reason.

But I tighten my grip, the air thick with tension. "No! Josephine! This is our story; this love is meant to endure!" In one swift motion, I claim her as mine, wrapped in passion, our fates intertwined. Against the vibrant backdrop of Paris, our hearts lay bare, a haunting tableau of love mingled with despair. Yet, even in our embrace, I feel the chasm yawning between us.

The patrons chatter on, blissfully ignorant of my torment. "She’s in the penthouse of the Four Seasons, lost in lust." A singing voice joins the conversation, "Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger, but she ain't messin' with no broke niggaz."

Another drag fills my lungs, the song looping, a bitter reminder of love slipping away, leaving me isolated, panic tightening its grip. I stagger out of the club, anger bubbling once more, clutching the glass tube, my lifeline, my anchor. "You'll save me, won't you? They'll pay for this, oh yes..."

I wander the streets of Paris, desperation etched upon my face, cafés, parks, and shops; each passerby a flicker of hope or derision. Glamorous posters leer at me, cruel reminders of life forever beyond my grasp, the pain sharpening.

A vision materializes, a siren clad in a shimmering, revealing dress, her face reminiscent of Josephine. In a dazzling gown, her story retold. We retreat to a dingy motel room, defenses stripped away, as lust ignites, I am caught in despair. In a frenzy, I pull her close, revealing her plight as she screams, "Help! Help! I cannot breathe! Please, stop. Stop..." I hush her cries with my hands.

A silence descends, and a voice from the dark accuses me of being less than human, of needing to purchase intimacy and compel submission. I shut my eyes, hands pressed to my ears, and I withdraw the glass tube, cursing this wretched fate. What is most terrifying? The realization that strikes—I've, Hugo, just extinguished a life.

"Now you ain't sayin' she a gold digger, but she ain't messin' with no broke niggaz."

"Now you ain't sayin' Josephine a gold digger, but she ain't messin' with no broke niggaz."

"Now we ain't sayin' Josephine a gold digger, but Josephine ain't messin' with no broke niggaz."

The song envelops me once more, her final breaths intertwining with the rhythm. Clutching the glass tube, I yearn for peace. I leave the payment for the sex upon her lifeless form. Yes, you are a gold digger!

I flee.

What I have unleashed haunts me, mind racing, heart wild. Neon lights blur, amplifying the child within me, Hugo. "What have I done? What are these voices I keep hearing? Who spoke those words?"

I rise above it all, the city aglow, despair a heavy shackle. "You didn’t deserve this, neither the pain nor the grief!" I assure myself as I sense something unfolding.

As dawn breaks over the Eiffel Tower, sunlight kisses the ground. I wonder, guilt-ridden, with no escape in sight. A newsstand murmurs, "Murder in the night," my heart sinks, the truth a burdensome weight. "What have I done?"

I recoil, terror seizing me, illusions dissipating, leaving only stark realities in the light of day. On the floor of my apartment, I sit, the glass tube nearby, incense and curses swirling, drowning me in dread. "I curse the wealthy, the beautiful, the superficial..."

The fabric of my sanity begins to unravel. I re-enter the nightclub, trembling, whispers woven in the air. "Victor's a fiend; he'll leave her broken." I grapple with the voice but cannot silence it. I take one last drag, smoke trailing behind. "Why do you want to bite your tongue?" The silence suffocates me. My eyes widen, horror igniting my heart. Thoughts race in shadows, my mind a tempest. Breathless, I slip into darkness, the tube my only shield.

I find myself at the penthouse of the Four Seasons Hotel, tiptoeing through muffled laughter. "Josephine..." I burst in, horror unfolding before me—Victor stands there, as predatory as the night. "Ah, the doorman returns; come join the revelry."

My heart races, smoke swirling around me like a shroud, mind fracturing, I clutch the tube tightly. "You monster!" In a frenzy of despair, I lash out, the glass shatters, and the spirit swirls in the air. "Hugo, what are you doing?" Josephine's voice pierces through.

The spirit continues its dance, carrying Josephine with me to the rooftop. She stands tall, fear etched on her face, yet her voice remains flat. "Hugo, I have nothing to say to you. What’s the difference? You force me to submit under the gaze of our neighbors. I compel myself to submit to a wealthy man for financial stability. I want to be a model. I will become a supermodel!"

“I must equip myself. All those skincare products, gym memberships, hair treatments, healthy diets, lavish accommodations, silk sheets, bikinis, manicures, massages—can you provide them? No. You are merely a doorman! “Hugo, please let go," Josephine says. In a monotone again.

Anguish twists within me as the mist envelops me, and I shout like a shooting star across the void. "Josephine! Tell me you’re not a gold digger. Tell me you’re not leaving me. Tell me tonight is just a dream!"

"Now Josephine you ain't sayin' you a gold digger, but Josephine you ain't messin' with no broke niggaz. Now Josephine you ain't sayin' you a gold digger, but Josephine ain't messin' with no broke niggaz." The lyrics erupt from my lips amidst a crack in my heart.

But Josephine is no longer with me. She becomes increasingly polarized. "Kill me! Drain my blood! Hold my breath! We are at an impasse." Her lips move, her voice unrecognizable. "Eyes, hair, mouth, figure, dress, voice, style, movement. Hands, magic, rings, glamour. Face, diamonds, excitement, image."

Josephine has never been so impassioned. "I came from the audience; they need to adore me. So Christian Dior me from my head to my toes. I need to be dazzling; I want to be Rainbow High. They must have excitement, and so must I."

“So Machiavell me, make an Josephine Rose. I need to be thrilling; I want to be Rainbow High.”

“So Lauren Bacall me, anything goes. To make me fantastic, I have to be Rainbow High. In magical colors.”

Josephine continues, “Can you pay for what I want? You can't! But my body might! Now we are at an impasse. Either you depart, or I will! Come on, kill me, consume me, devour me!" 

The mist envelops us, transforming fury into sorrow. "They'll pay... You'll all pay...I'll pay..." I cry and laugh, but the shadows mock me. "You're nothing, Hugo. Just a doorman, remember?" A voice emerges from nowhere. "No! I possess power!" I scream in hysteria, "It is not 'nowhere'; it is 'now here'!"

The mist wraps around Josephine, pulling her away. "I have nothing to convey to you, Hugo." Her voice swirls as the spirit claims her.

Desperation claws at me, but it’s too late. The ghost consumes Josephine, and silence becomes grave. "No... what have I done?" I implore the universe. I unravel, guilt my only companion. I collapse, the shattered tube beside me, screaming into the shadows, "I'm not insane!"

A voice echoes softly, calm yet chilling. "You are what you fear, consumed by your fire." The voice continues, "Now Josephine ain't sayin' she a gold digger, but Josephine ain't messin' with no broke niggaz. Now Hugo ain't sayin' she a gold digger, but Josephine ain't messin' with no broke niggaz."

Horror envelops me, truth dawning at last—the voices were mine, Hugo's, my fate eternally entwined. "I'm the ghost. I am the one who digs..." Laughter bleeds into tears as shadows close in; the haunted apartment is where nightmares begin. I collapse onto the floor. Consciousness slips away, alongside some noises digging, deep in my mind.

The sound echoes like a distant memory, resonating with the weight of buried secrets and unspoken regrets. Each scrape and thud reverberates through the silence, a rhythmic reminder of my actions, of the life I extinguished. As I drift into oblivion, the haunting echoes of my guilt resonate, digging deeper, unearthing the remnants of my shattered soul.

In this abyss, I become both the speak and the heard, grappling with the shadows of my existence, as the digging intensifies—a relentless pursuit of the truth buried beneath layers of despair. I am trapped in a cacophony of my own making, where every whispered confession and every unacknowledged sin claw at my consciousness, demanding to be unearthed.