To my Dearest Friend

Childhood

I imagine the way Emile's childhood must have been. I don't know what it is to have a normal childhood. My father was hardly ever home, my mom was a good mom but after the death of her second baby she never became her normal self anymore. I was raised by nannies, I was homeschooled for most of my childhood. And when I finally went to boarding school I was already different, I didn't like fighting or seeing people fighting, I didn't like learning about naval things, tell me about art, tell me about beauty, tell me about sewing. My mother taught me embroidering, sewing and other things that women were supposed to do. I liked it, I loved it. I became a very strange child, I loved talking, I loved getting to know people but I was afraid they would abandon me, I never kept a friend for long. I don't know why, perhaps I'm too afraid they would leave like my father, or die like my mother. Yes, I still have contact with my father but I am not affectionate towards him. My mom died because she was tired of living, I get it. It doesn't mean I woul don't think it was a wrong decision. Émile's childhood must've been perfect, a loving father, a mother who also seems loving, Siblings to share your worries with. A perfect family I think, as I look at their beautiful family portrait.

'Are you alright?' Somebody asks. I look at them, it's Émile's dad. I nod. 'I'm sorry if this seems strange, I just admire how perfect your family is sir!' He looks at the portrait and doesn't respond. 'Perfection is in the eye of the beholder, just like beauty' I nod, 'maybe, I heard you were friends with Mathieu Montague." he nods. And smiles, I know that sort of smile but don't know from where. 'My best friend.' I nod. 'His son is my best friend' 'Really? isn't that a coincidence, Yves is his name right? He is such a kind young men, looks exactly like his father. In every way' 'In every way?' I ask. He nods. 'The way they walk, the way they would like to dress, their hair, they are like twins. He even speaks the same way. That beautiful philosophical sense, that curiousness no one could take from him. Altough I only know that from émile and letters...' 'Wait, what? Are we talking about the same men?' 'Yes' he sighs 'only I know him before he was broken by the system.'