The Art of Melancholia

Disenchanted

Days passed. Weeks. Months. Summer ended. An earthquake struck Lisbon. Events passed by, but I felt no different. I was as "settled" as I could be; Varlemont was properly furnished, the land well kept, and with it all my distractions faded. I had nothing to do. Nothing to say. Nothing to think. I was left to face reality, and my reality was this: I was alone. No word from my brother, who I assumed was content wherever he was, a fact that annoyed me. I wasn't worried for his safety, but it bothered me that he had not written. It had been months since I saw him last. Our father knew of his elopement, so what was he waiting for? My father has already made his attempts to drag him back home. I had thought of writing a letter to him myself, and I spent much time pondering what to say, but I did not trust the staff enough to do so. He could've written to our mother; what harm could've come from that? Our family knew where he was. Did my father keep his letters from me? At the time I believed so. I still choose to believe that; it makes my present situation less painful.

Or more - I haven't yet decided.

I had only Catherine for company, which was poor. As the weeks passed, she spoke more freely of Paris and Court. Her Majesty had a son; we should go to the opera, the ballets, or the gardens of the Tuilleres. Madame de X hosts a salon in the Marais; her brother at Court received a promotion; her aunt told her this; and a friend told her that. And it all annoyed me. I had no care for any of it. She could've told me that Our Saviour himself was seen walking on the Seine, and I wouldn't have cared enough to leave the island I had built for myself.

But I missed my mother terribly. I worried for her, as for the first time in my life I couldn't speak to her whenever I wished. The space between us widened with time. I knew she wasn't happy and certainly not safe. I paced around my room for hours as I thought of her. I daydreamed about seeing her again and how happy that would make me. But she was so far, out there, encased in stone, suffering and silent, somewhere between dead and alive.

These thoughts of mine kept me far into the night. My only comfort was a fantasy I had created. I envisioned my brother returning; my mother would weep tears of joy and forgive him, and we would all live together like we once did, but much happier than before. My brother and I would laugh once again and fence in the courtyard or ride our horses in the great woods. I could see my mother again and speak to her without any of the dark burdens that plagued us. The sun would shine, the flowers would bloom, and somewhere in there I would be happy too. That was the only thing I wanted. The only thing I truly want

There was one person I never saw in those daydreams of mine-the one obstacle. If he were gone-though I can't say I imagined killing him much then-say of some common illness or odd accident, then that would all come true. My brother would return; why wouldn't he? My mother would be safe and happy; why wouldn't she? I would be happy myself; why wouldn't I? I would step from the shadows, and the sun would shine on my family once again. There would be nothing left to do other than return to a childhood of domestic bliss and simplicity I ached for. One where my father would never darken the corners of my mind. One where he would be forgotten, where he never existed in the first place. I could return to the easy life I had when I always knew who I was and where to be. I could stay exactly the same forever; I could be free. I knew what I wanted. I had to go back. I would be better the second time around. I knew what I had to do. Those thoughts of mine would be the only thing that lulled me to sleep after the restless hours.

I can't remember when I decided to kill my father. I had no sudden epiphany. There was no direct cause and effect. He only became far removed from me. He was only another person. As long as he did not bother me, I was content. As long as I was away, he was not a person I had to deal with. I still clung to the child's fantasy that he was someone to respect; in the depths of his soul he was a man of reason, and he only did what he thought was best. That image in my mind, when I looked up at my father from my low position, crumbled to the ground after sixteen long years because I saw him clearly from the distance. I suppose I had always wanted to kill him, but much like my violence to myself, it was more of a slow, nagging thought than anything that was brought up by violent passions. In truth, I only wished him gone, and that was the end of it.