To my Dearest Friend

My cyril and the last step

I ask myself why I feel this guilt while cyril seems to feel none. My trembling hands feel the cold water on their rough surface. I scrub them meticulously, in an effort to keep my mind off things or perhaps in an effort to wash off my guilt just like lady macbeth tried to do, The hopeless fight against the numbing feeling of guilt. I scrub themm again and agina and agian, an endless cyle of strange behaviour to keep my ind off things. Untill my nail scratches the surface. I feel a sharp pain as the crimson red from the colour of our lives billows up onto my hand. I such on the wound in an effort to minimise stains on my clothing and pain. The electrical taste of guilt and pain consumes my mouth. I try to focus on the running water, but my mind wanders off to evrything I have done to him. I am thinking far too much, far more than I desire to think.

I have promised not to drink excessively because of the appointement tomorrow. I am trying my best not to pour myself just one glass that'll end up in five. I think about cyril how I love him and how I hate him, this strange tantalising torment of not knowing which feeling triumphs over the other. And every time I think I know the land of reason falls away from under my feet.This feeling of unknown like being lost in the fog while you know you are standing on a cliff not sure where to put your feet, not knowing when you'll fall and when you'll be able to stand. I would rather die at this moment than tell you I am still in love with you, but it is the plain truth, I love you too much, I always have, it would slowly drive me insane to lose it. And I have already lost it. So perhaps I am just slowly lowering myself down in this mine of loneliness and utter madness.

I hate myself so much, just like you hated yourself all those years ago. You hates your beautiful self so much that the only thing that could fix it was my undeniable love. I always told myself I would not be as ashamed of being me as you were, I would not hide my heart from the swords of pain I had you as my sword and shield, you were my protection, you were my pride. And look at me now, I wish I had fallen in love with a girl, I wish I was married, I wish I had a two year old running around in the manor being raised like the utter upper-class brat her would be, and perhaps I would even have a good relationship with my father, who would be so proud of me. I would be perfect. My life would be perfect.

Guilt, such a sensible way or being perfectly narcissistic. Just suck it up Yves, not everything is about you. The world does not revolve around you nor will it ever, perhaps once Cyril's world revolved around you but not anymore. It is not your fault yves don't be such a narscisist. You told him the truth and how he copes is his own choice. I should not care about him, I should have my own beautiful english rose waiting at home for me to return. To welcome me with a kiss and a hug, or perhaps welcome me with the same cold stare as my mother used to have, a cold stare of doubt where he has been and what he has done there. My wife I will never have would hate how I behave sometimes but she would love me, in her own twisted way. We'd be something to be jealous of. And still I am not able to imagine, everytime I try I see the same sickenly beautiful face of my Cyril. Well, he will never be My cyril again.

I sit down on my soft bed, my muscles can barely carry my own weight. it's as if this sadness has a weight that is physcial, as if it's real. It's not a simple emotion we can forget by the mere mention that it is just an emotion, or perhaps it is but it does not feel like that. It's like it's sucking my life . Greedy for my hapiness, greedy for my joy, greedy for my emotions. And the more I think about it the more I feed into it, the heavier is becomes before eventually crushing my lungs leaving a lifeless soul behind. Showered in the burning rains of misery and love, slowly eating away the last flesh of my rotting soul, still desperate for the tiniest gesture of love. How extremely pathetic I am, so much self-pity, what an utter waste of a soul.

I am pathetic, I should man up, get this deal, be nice to Cyril, go back to Vienna, possibly find a nice Vienesse and marry anybody when I am back home. I should shut off my feelings. because what is why do we need them if we won't understand them?

Akiva Meier

Today Cyril, Émile and I will slum through the city and watch an opera tonight.  As a goodbye to Paris. The fine art of opera and music ringing in our ears as we travel on to Vienna. But first after the opera Cyril says we will have a magnificent dinner. I am a bit worried, I haven't been able to eat a lot here, most of the things Cyril plans do not that take into account that I eat Kosher, which is not that surprising at all. I don't know how to feel about being alone with Émile and Cyril. I quite like Émile but Cyril always leaves a bit of a bad taste in my mouth, I understand why Yves loves him if I see the way they communicate but he seems to hate me since the moment he has met me all those years ago.

I knock on Yves door. He opens it, he looks horrible, the thing I would compare him to is a corpse but that would be rather rude, let's just say that I would not see the difference if he would be lying dead on the floor right now. I smile my soft smile.

'Are you ready?' I ask 'Well, yes, I'll be off in a minute, do you want me to pay for your transport?' He asks, being as pragmatic as always. 'I just wanted to make sure if you were alright.' He laughs with a strange sarcastic undertone. 'Such a strange question: are you alright... What is the definition of being alright?' He asks. 'I honestly would not know how to answer that dear.' I respond. He smiles with pain in his heart. He puts on his coat and hands me my hat, we walk towards the door. 'Here, buy something interesting for yourself.' He says while handing me a sum of money I would never dare to spend. 'Yves, this is far too much.' I say, a bit curious why ha would give me so much money. 'I insist, I dragged you to Paris, than you should also be treated to something nice.' he responds, I know he won't change his mind, I'll just be sure to buy something for him. I sigh, 'You are strange Yves.' He steps into a cariagge, 'And I know it.' He says while smiling.

Yves indeed is a strange person, I feel like he's my younger brother, a brother that I need to protect but constantly tries to escape my warm shelter. Everyday I feel more guilty as he slips further into the abyss of hopelessness and impulsivity. I want to give him more than speeches that are supposed to make him feel better. I feel guilty watching him wilt like the old oak in my garden, and I stand there, not being able to help him, despite my best efforts. This beautiful soul slowy wasting away at the hands of this society. What is it more than a simple tragedy?

I step into my carriage, prepared for a day of luxury I would never wish to have. Wealth, a strange arrogance that creep upon you as you believe to be invincible, and you are, untill everything comes crashing down. Why? because of that same exact wealth, the wealth you have celbrated all your life suddenly turns into a curse you are trapped inside a golden cage of rules and must comply to an society they have built to keep everyone's noses pointing the right direction, the direction of even more growth, even more wealth, even more rules, evern more misery and it's a process that repeats time after time till one of the sons falls from that unobtainable mountain of presssure and wealth we created resulting in something not unlike Yves. The only difference is they are already six feet under, Yves is only standing in his grave with one foot. But you never know when he'll take the step.