To my Dearest Friend

the duty of silence

Cyril Courtenay

I sit in front of my father, a whole table in between us and no words spoken. The table feels like a barrier of arrogance, it is like he cannot see me. Granted the giant flowers make it considerably harder but still. 'So, father, how has your life been without me?' I ask while looking at the warm soup in front of me. I am absolutely not hungry, well I am hungry for some sign of acknowlegdement. But it seems I will not be satisfied, because he does not answer. I sigh and continue talking to fill this silence of disdain. 'You know dad sometimes I ask myself if you are deaf but than you respond to one of the maids.' I take a deep breath.

'I have always wanted your love father, your appreciation and it seems I will never get it.' He doesn't respond, I feel anger releasing it's ties from my heart, it burns through my bones and churns through my tears, it flies in my mind and destroys my common sense, my duty of silence. 'I wish you would simply react to me, so I know I am not a ghost to you. Just a little nod, eye contact for one moment. An acknowledgement, that you know t..... that I am your son, I am your blood. I even look like you father, I am a mirror to you and still you have the audacity to hate me with such a passion. Why father? Why? What have I done but being human?' the only reaction I see is that his upper lip curls up in disgust, disdain for his own heir, his own blood, his former pride and joy, his own son. I was the one he was once proud of. I would not believe it today, how could I ever been something he was proud of. Was he? Was he even proud?

I stand up and hear my own voice yell: 'Say something!' The soup spills onto my clothes, burning my skin but the pain isn't as bad as the pain of silence, the duty of silence, the curse of silence. 'Curse me out! Hit me! Care enough about me to hate me I beg you! Show me I am not invisible to you!' He stands up and walks towards me. I feel tears prickling in my eyes, will he finally acknowledge me? But instead of fulfilling my deepest desire he simply walks straight past me, as if I am not there. As if I am nothing more than a statue, a figment of my own imagination.

And there I stand, humiliated and ridiculed. Invisible. How much shame does he feel when someone mentions me? Why do I still feel pride when somebody mentions my family, why do I still feel pride over the existence of my father. I walk into my room, I grab the paper I am writing to keep my mind of things, I am testing the most efficient way of killing rats so I can perhaps make the most effiecient form of pest control in the busiest cities.

I read my recent findings when my mind strays from rats to my father, they have a lot in common. Same foul eyes, they don't seem to die easily. I grab the bottle of arsenic. It is odourless, tateless, a heavenly poison for every potential killer, and yes granted, the new rules say that it must have an indigo tint but how hard can it be to disguise it? A shiver runs down my spine, I should not think about this. Only people who are utterly insane think of these things. I hope I am not utterly insane, altough some people would disagree, I roll my eyes, folie circulaire as they call it. I've never believed in it but Yves has always said that even if I don't have it I must be catious at all times and think about eveyrthing twice before to doing it. Well you may have noticed that I have not succeeded.

My father has always said that it cannot be true, but he also said my mother would be fine. And I found her hanging from a rope adorned with the most beautiful roses, well, I don't know if I might have imagined the roses but I did find her. I look at the poison, perhaps he does deserve to die. But if he did wouldn't he already be dead? I wave away the thoughts of death and utter destruction. I am confused by my own mind, I have never been violent or dark, why am I now?

I wish I have Yves by my side, it would make it so much easier to be back in this hell-hole. I hate my father so much, I hate him but I love him, I was his approval, he is so important to me. And I am nothing to him, I have done half the things I have ever done in my life for him. All to make him proud.

I look in the mirror, I look strangely pale, there are dark circles under my eyes, my lips look strangely blue. I look like a doll, I look like I am frozen in time and space. I look in the vicious eyes of my reflection. I hate myself so much just like I did in the first few months of Uni before I met him. I hate the reality of my life, the promising future I once had.

I am dancing in front of an audience who would be delighted to see my downfall. they would be delighted to see me fail. I always wanted to be better, making the fall deeper and deeper. I wonder if I'll even survive it. the harder i worked the more inevitable the the fall became. I have never been good enough and l will never be. And for whom? Have I danced al these years for my father, the one who would laugh the most when I fall down, but he would also hate me even more if I did. Have I already fallen? Have I? I don't know. I remember that suffocating feeling of the little strings on my hands as I was a marionette of my father's wishes before yves cut them. he has never cared for me. There was only his praise when I stood out among people. I would do everything to be the best, I would've done inhumane things only to get the praise I so craved from my father. Victories were the only thing that could stop the hunger. Victories were and will alwas be my only saviour. I only ask myself what a victory is right now.

There are no longer victories I can get. What would my vicotry be nowadays? And I realise my downfall has been long aho. My downfall was the one time I felt confident enough to tell my father the whole truth about me. About me and my love. About me and Yves. I take a deep breath and thank god I have never mentioned Yves as something other than a friend. I frown, how could it be that that downfall didn't hurt back than but does now, I know the answer, I had him and now I have nothing.