I Worship Claire

It was a cold Autumn morning. At precisely 7:29 am, David Peterson opened his eyes and rose from bed right before the alarm clock was set to go off. It was always like this, a perfect biological routine. Whenever things needed to be done, he was ready and willing no matter what.
David shook his head on the way to the bathroom, a throbbing headache making the world slightly distorted as he walked. He had just entered the other division when the strangest of sentences escaped his lips,
“I worship Claire,” he muttered.
Who? he found himself thinking. Not only he didn’t know anyone by that name, but he also disliked the word worship more than anything. Uttering it evoked religious feelings of ecstatic devotion and he wasn’t a religious man, far from it. There was no God watching over the miseries of the world but, even if there were, it would never be a woman. If anyone wanted to waste their life praising non-existent deities that was their problem, but he simply had no time for such buffoonery.
David descended to the kitchen and fixed himself a hearty breakfast. As he opened the refrigerator door to grab the maple syrup, the veins on his forehead pulsated simultaneously, the same enigmatic sentence echoing all around.
“I worship Claire,” he said.
What’s this all about? he mused. Leftovers of a dream, perhaps? David dreamed a lot every single night but could never remember what his dreams were about. Sometimes, there were glimpses here and there but not enough to tell the whole story and he wasn’t good at filling in the blanks, either.
After finishing his breakfast, he got dressed and rode down the elevator to the underground parking lot where his motorcycle waited. The red and black Ducati Monster 821 was his pride and joy, and a faithful companion during the last couple of years. Riding it to school every morning gave him a sense of freedom and joy unlike anything else, a heartwarming sensation he was always eager to replicate.
David was a teacher. He tried to educate troubled teens on the beauty of math but, most of the time, he felt like his efforts were going to waste. Still, he persevered for the only thing he hated more than “worshiping” was “failure”.
Upon arriving at school, he immediately dashed to the classroom to get a head start on the morning lesson. Chalk in hand, he started scribbling equations on the blackboard. His students arrived one by one and took their seats, and he greeted them without looking back.
“Good morning, class,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Peterson,” said a young, sultry voice he recognized as belonging to Becky Williams, one of the few that usually paid attention to what he had to say. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked.
“Of course. Why do you say that?”
“Who’s Claire?”
David blinked and stared at the blackboard. The top half had a series of exercises he wanted them to practice but the lower section was but a series of repetitions of the same damning command.
I worship Claire. I worship Claire. I worship Claire. I worship Claire. I worship Claire. I worship Claire…
“Mr. Peterson?” Becky insisted. “It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I…” he mumbled and erased the unnerving messages. “Never mind about that, okay? Let’s begin.”
All morning classes went by in a flash and so did the two in the afternoon. At half past hour, he was ready to go home and didn’t waste any time doing so.
While riding the trustworthy vehicle back to his apartment, he remembered something from the night before, or rather someone. The new neighbor was at her doorstep, holding what appeared to be a black and white paperweight with a spiraling motif. She had long black hair and almond-shaped eyes, yet the object in her hands was much more appealing. He stared and…
“I worship Claire,” he said, momentarily taking his eyes off the road. He pulled himself together just in time to avoid a collision with a speeding truck and got off the bike, shaking and sweating.
“Fuck! Why is this happening?” he clenched his teeth.
After taking a few moments to compose himself, he got on the motorcycle again and completed the rest of the journey, his mind in shambles. He headed to the elevator and saw his neighbor again, wearing a black and white tank top and a leather skirt. She held the spinning paperweight before his eyes and said,
“Good afternoon, David. I really enjoyed our conversation yesterday. I believe you have something to tell me, right?”
Eyes unblinking, thoughts slowly dissolving in a numbing haze, he nodded gently and said,
“Yes. I worship you, Claire.”
“I know you do, pet. Hmm, I love how easy it is to get inside your head. How about you follow me to my place so I can continue rewriting your thoughts?”
“Yes, Claire,” he replied vacantly as the doors closed behind him.
He would not remember anything of the following weeks and months except always being hers to command.

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