A Secret Ambition

XXXVI

"I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares." Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

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XXXVI.

Callan did not honestly know if he had ever planned on returning to Ireland voluntarily. He was bound by his agreement with his grandfather, but that promise was made with the ego of a young man who never thought he would fail.

Callan had not intended to leave his Irish identity behind. But he had believed that upon leaving Ireland, he would leave behind the poverty and oppression that had been rife amongst his people. Callan had not known then that such experiences cut wounds so deep that no man could outrun them.

It was a very strange and unnerving position to be in. Callan could see the Irish port on the horizon. He was closer to home then he had been in years, and yet he was not returning as a failure. He was not ruined. He would not have to face his grandfather and renounce his faith. Callan could stand proudly before the man if he wanted to.

But he did not feel proud. He did not feel anything resembling pride. He did not feel successful. He did not feel triumphant. He did not feel as though he had built himself out of poverty with pure determination.

Callan now knew that was because no amount of success, no amount of money, or status, or respect amongst gentlemen could mend an unhealed wound. Callan had not realised just how much the wound had festered until Lily had tried to look into his heart.

Despite the fact that he was not returning to Ireland as a failure; in a way, Callan did feel like he had failed. His father had sacrificed his very pride to ensure that Callan was able to be better than those who had gone before him. The life that Callan was living was exactly what his father had wanted for him. Callan was now, technically, successful. He had forged a strong, if not slightly odd partnership with an influential nobleman, and had means and new connections that could only prosper from this latest shipment arriving intact.

Callan had always kept his head down in business. At least, he had thought it was only business. He had not understood that by continuing to keep his head down, he was living in denial of what he had experienced growing up oppressed.

It was a demon in itself to admit that what Callan had achieved did not make him happy. It felt like an insult to his father's memory and sacrifices to say that the life Callan was living was not the future he desired. It felt cruel, above all, to realise that his wounds remained despite what his father had done to spare Callan from remaining oppressed in Ireland.

What was it all for?

No sooner had Callan posed the question forlornly to himself did he see her eyes in the vast sea of blue. Had she read his letter? Did she understand?

But then, Callan was not at all articulate. How could ever hope to express what he was feeling when he had spent a lifetime learning to suppress any healthy expression of emotion?

All that Callan was sure of was that there was no way that he could ever imagine himself fit enough to be the man worthy of someone like Lily unless he could miraculously be alright with everything that had happened to him.

Achieving such a feat felt like an insurmountable climb.

***

Lily,

I could never hate you more than I hate myself. I could never hate you at all. You are what's good, and I am filled with what is not.

And you are the only reason that I have the strength to leave your side.