Thousand Paper Cuts

Thirty-six : a sky without any colour

Mark :

A week later :

Sunday afternoon.
He was sitting across his dad in his study room, on his dad's call.
His dad had set a rule that they'd sit together and talk every Sunday. He called them "Sunday talks", while Mark thought of them as "Sunday wasted" (Technically, his whole life was)
"Let me be clear", his dad spoke in those kind of typical dad-voices he hated, "From now on, since you're back--which is the happiest moment of my life---i expect you to share everything with me. I'm your father, not a stranger.."
I can go away again, Mark thought, it would be better near ocean without any home, than here. Well, I will go away one day. Then I won't come back....
"Okay...?", Mark said, nodding in the direction of the vast swimming pool in their backyard.
"Tell me son, where were you all this time?"
Great. Investigation time.
"Just..", he began, "just around.."
"Around where?"
"Uh", he thought of something worth-believing, "I was at the hotel. Far from here. Dad, don't worry, I'm fine now. I haven't joined any drug business, if that's what you're thinking..."
His dad shrugged, saying,
"What were you doing outside that church? And crying?"
How far could he go without not lying any further?
He took a sip from the beer, and ran his fingers through his hair. He realized his hands were shaking. He remembered her, in her white dress, looking so beautiful, but for someone else.

Slowly, and then all at once, he told his dad everything about her. Everything including the wedding. Specifically the wedding.
"Ohh", his dad let out, in a kind voice that made him think whether he cared or not.
While talking about her, he felt like exposing everything in front of his dad. Everything, that didn't belong to him anymore. Every moment was gone like the wind. Every laughter they shared was just another distant memory.
"Mark, tell me what can I do.....I'm so sorry, son."
Mark rubbed his face ferociously. He felt like dreaming. His whole life felt like a sky without any colour.
Am I even real?, he thought, it feels so strange. It feels like....none of us are real. Or maybe we are just characters already been given the cast and dialogues. I feel like this world is a lie. We all are dying. We are not living. The longer we try to live, the closer we are to death. Lucas, tell me something. Tell me that I'm real. Please, I want someone to shake me. Let me know what's terribly wrong with me.
I feel so far away from myself. From everyone. As if I'm an ocean, and they're afraid of drowning.

"Mark?", his dad asked, a little louder.
"Yeah?"
"I asked, how can I help you?"
"You can't", Mark replied, "infact, no one can."
"You have to let go of things."
His dad was trying so hard to make Mark just like him : famously rich and lifeless.
"But", Mark pleaded, "Some things don't just go away. They leave a hole in your heart, and you can try your whole life fixing that, but It never really happens. All you are always left with is more pain. And then? Then you die. Boom. That's our life."
His dad stood up, walked towards the window slowly. The sunrays were hitting his face, that looked young and careless, despite of his white hair.
The thing about his dad was that he always looked young and careless. Everytime you'd see him, he'd remind you of James Dean or Daniel Craig or someone supercool. Someone who had all the power and happiness. Mark didn't know the truth though, but he surely LOOKED happy.
"Mark, you have to get out of these hopeless books. Literature is ruining you. Those poems you read were written by poets who were ferocious at the world. Who were depressed. But they had missed the point somewhere, just like you : even in the midst of pain, we need not to worry, but hope for the good."
What a pep talk his dad was giving him. He should win an oscar or something.
But his dad was the one missing the point somewhere.
Mark shrugged, saying,
"You cannot know other's pain unless it's your own", and then he added,
"And what good it does in not worrying? You'll die anyway. And, how can you just become a careless person and let things that happen to you have no effect on you? That's not possible. You can't just....not care."
His dad laughed. As if he and his problems were a circus, and his dad was a careless kid enjoying the "Mark Bryant's show" as long as it was in the town.
"Then what?", his dad again got serious, "You saying we all start thinking about pain and cry? And become like you? Son, you're
overexaggerating this pain. Let go. Be free."
He'd had enough. He stood up, pushing the chair so it fell on the ground, got near his dad, and shouted,
"FREE? Huh, you are saying that I should wear some polka dot shirt, go on a beach, have sun's rays falling on me, and just breathe? Guess what? When I'll look at the sun, it'll remind me of her bright smile. When I'll go on the beach and see all that sand running through my fingers, I'll think of her leaving me too soon. The ocean? It'll make me think of her deep, beautiful heart. So everything might turn back to her. Why? Because I'm a human--and like the others---i want what I think makes me free. And in the matter of freedom, it doesn't matter if it's on the sun-drenched beautiful place, or with someone you love!!!!"
His dad nodded, as if he DID understand, and slowly said,
"You really love her."