To my Dearest Friend

A letter that will never be sent

My dearest Cyril, 

Not every letter is meant to be read, or even be sent. This letter is one of them. So you will probably only read this one in the case of my untimely death. So let's hope you'll never read it. here we go- To begin I love you, hopelessly, sickenly. I know I might be daft but I could've sworn you did too. I wish you would have made it more clear. I wish you would have told me we were history when going to Paris. I'm sitting here feeling numb and I am not sure if that is your doing or mine. I seem to blame myself for even loving you to begin with. But my darling, my dear, I can hardly breathe without you. Every morning I wake up hoping this was all a terrible nightmare. Every morning the reality hits me again. You are gone and I am not even sure if you'll ever come back. I'm slowly turning into my father, I am not myself anymore, I want you back and I don't blame you for it but it seems like I need some degree of your love to be stable. And that in none of your concern, I should look for a lovely young lady to satisfy my need for love. Of course and my father would even be extremely happy with it. Maybe the rest of my life I shall be an emotionally numb. I don't know. I've always believed I'd stay like this my whole life but maybe my father is right. Maybe I will turn into my father. 

Secondly, I miss you. I always will when you're not here with me. whether I want to or not. I don't just miss you, everything reminds me of you. Everything, even the slightest mention or a place we liked to go. Even the way couples look at each other. I miss you and the problem for me is that I will not be able to replace that look. Ever in my entire life, I shall savour your smile, your eyes for all eternity. I cannot replace them, and I will not. 

Your love and sunlight, 

What once was your dearest,

 Yves Montague

I look at the portrait of Yves, He has always looked like me. I hate the way he resembles the parts I hate the most about myself. I think, do I hate them? or was I taught to hate them by my father. Why did he hate them? I am still not sure. I did it completely wrong didn't I? I have hurt my child, I have commited the sin of turning a safe haven into a battlefield. I will meet with him tomorrow, he wants to take it slow, which I get, he must be terrified of me. Eloise, my wife enters the room. 'Do you think he ever knew I loved him?' She sits down in the chair across the table. 'I honestly do not know Mathieu, you never said it to him.' She says, clearly judging me. 'But I gave him every opportunity he desired.' 'not without protest.' she says without her stoic face changing. 'Eloise, what is it? Are you mad at me?' 'I do not get is Mathieu, I know all your deepest darkest secrets, and one of then closely resembles the very thing you almost killed my child for. You don't hate him because he is stubborn, you hate him because you still hate that very part of you yourself.' 'Eloise, I don't know what you mean.' 'You damn well know what I mean Montague! and you do not get to pretend you don't I married you and all your secrets with it. That is the only power I have in this marriage, do not forget it Mathieu, so dare you touch my son again you will not see the walls of any palace for the remainder of your life, you will only see the ones of prison.' 'Eloise, do not..' 'Don't, I should have taken action long ago but better late than never.' 

I am flabbergasted by it. I take a sip of my wine. Does she mean that? Why didn't she do this earlier? She could have spared Yves' horrible childhood. But she's right, she has always been the socially smarter one. I know a lot but she has always been great at knowing people's vulnerabilities. I heard the glass shatter, I look at it, I held it too tightly. I take a deep breath. As the shard digs into my skin. 

I open the bottle of laudanum. My father is coming today and I do not have the strength to do this sober. I put on clothes my dad would approve of. I look at myself in the mirror. I look somewhat alive. I sigh and grab a book. The bells rings. I open it. It's my father. I smile. 'I planned to walk in the park nearby, is that alright?' I ask. He nods. We walk through the streets, barely saying anything. Both too scared to start a conversation. 'How are you?' My father asks. 'I could be better, but I can't complain.' I answer. He nods. 'Look Yves, I see now that I've made major mistakes in raising you, but I am willing to be better. I am willing to work on it. I hope you are too.' I feel my jaw closing, this man just naturally makes me angry. I don't know why. Well, I do know why. 'I am also willing father, please do not insinuate I am not. because if so I would not be here.' 'I wish you would not be so angry with me.' I take a deep breath and stop walking. 'Listen father, I am not angry.' I feel tears appearing in my eyes. 'I am simply in terrible pain. You were the one who is and was supposed to build me up, not tear me down. You were supposed to shape a not scold me. You were the one I was supposed to be safe around, you were supposed to love me.... but all you've done is hurt me and from that I am still in agonizing pain.' I see a tear in the corner of his eye, I've never seen that. 'I am truly sorry you have felt that my son. But I promise I've always loved you. Even when it felt like I did not. You are my son and I promise that every time I see you I am proud of what man you've become.' 'Father, why didn't you tell me? I cannot read minds. I cannot guess what you were thinking. I've always thought you are utterly disgusted by every aspect of my being.' He sighs. 'Son, I might not agree with you on everything but I will always love you.' We shall see I think. 'I'm publishing a book.' I say. 'What?' I nod. I see him swallowing, 'Congratulations.' I smile