tales of killing lights

the superb disaster

0.
the superb disaster

«My only star is dead - and my constellated lute -
Bears the black Sun of Melancholia.» Gerard de Nerval, in his poem El Desdichado

Apollo had always been a strange boy. Since he was four or five years old, he had weird dreams. Not nightmares, never nightmares, but really weird dreams. He had struggled to describe them when his parents asked him what it was about. His dad often called him « his little freak » and, even if it was always said with a gentle smile, it hurt. Apollo never forgot this nickname. And when he grew up and heard people calling him a freak, this time with harsh tones and mocking, angry grins, it hurt even more than before.

It made him choke, it strangled him. His whole was growing pains that invaded even his mind.

He was a freak, and this definition of himself made him so sad he wanted to disappear. Or to melt in the sky, perhaps. He would have liked to be a cloud. No, a star. Because it shone.

*

Apollo had always been a strange boy. He didn't fit in the standards and expectations people had for little boys. He was obsessed by cleanliness. He didn't like to be dirty and had become clean at a very early age. He liked to lay on the floor during hours, looking at the bright blue sky in the summer, at the faded gray of the winter sky ; but most of all, whatever the season was, at how the sun was always there, looking after him, in "some corner of the universe" as he liked to say, illuminating the world and giving it life. He liked the reflect of light on water, he found it beautiful on the sea, even if it would quickly become a bit dull, but thrilling on the river - what a paradox, because the sea was agitated and powerful whereas a river was always quiet, almost silent, making weak noises. He liked to see the nature blossoming thanks to the sun and he adored the feeling of sunshine on his skin. He enjoyed watching the lovely dawn appearing early in the morning, the soft pink lights meeting the yellow ones in the horizon and he loved the heartbreaking twilights - he only watched it when he was sad, just like the Little Prince, the hero of his favorite book.

One Sunday, his dad said, sitting in the sofa and lazily looking at Apollo's drawings he would have liked to have a boy he could watch the Superbowl, not one who liked singing or playing some music with his small piano while making flowers crown.
His mother answered : "You should have thought about it before agreeing to name him Apollo, idiot. His personality fits him well, I wouldn't want him to change not even a little bit."
"What did you want to give him this ridiculous name, by the way ?" his dad asked.
"Because it sounds poetic - and because I'm Greek, of course."
"Why on earth should a name be poetic ?"
"I've always believed a name was already telling someone's nature", she replied. "Yours is so boring, it should have told me you were dumb", she added.

The look on his dad's face had made Apollo laugh. Hearing their son, his parents had stopped their bickering and laughed too.

It was one of the memories he had of them that he cherished the most.

*

Apollo had always been a handsome boy. He had curly blond hair, a very tanned skin he had inherited from his Iranian father, and his amber eyes that had a bit of green in it. The only feature he had with the representation people made of the greek god Apollo was his hair, but he was certainly as beautiful as him. Sometimes he was too aware of it, and could seem pretentious, and sometimes he was so oblivious that he couldn't notice the effect he had on people at all. But Apollo had always had quite a short temper. He had never been cruel, but he did get angry easily. And he hated not getting what he wanted.
He hated being alone.

*

Apollo had always been a superb disaster.