these sweet nightmares

chapter 2: misery

Usually, but not always, I can predict what kind of day I will have later on base on the morning I wake from. The prediction is formed by a combination of probability and factors that play from the previous day, and by adding up the key items, I can guess whether the day will be a good or bad one.

On this particular morning of the next few days after the bad news, however, I couldn’t draw anything to come to a conclusion on what this day might bring. When I woke up from an inadequate and fitful sleep, it was as if anything could happen. It was an uncertainty I did not like at all. Not knowing was synonymous as to being blind in the dark, and I hated being totally useless, being unable to do anything about my current situation.

For a while, I simply lay there, wondering why I couldn’t help but feel something awful was going to happen. From a tiny slit of the curtains in my room, I could see that dark, gray clouds blocked the sun. Outside, there were no birds singing today.

Pushing the bedcovers away, I got out of bed. I dressed in my loose fitting clothing and went out of my room. The corridors were silent, empty of the normal hustle and bustle of the servants hurrying on their daily tasks. I still hadn’t gotten used to the eerie quietness that settled on the mansion. It was strange not to be around familiar people anymore.

My feet shuffled across the worn wooden floorboards as I came downstairs to meet the absence of the usual hubbub. The sweet aromas of gourmet cuisines our chef, Thomas, used to cook from various ingredients had long dissipated, leaving an unpleasant stale odor which still lingered in the air.

My stomach growled. Even without Thomas, I still had to eat. So I got myself a sad piece from a half eaten loaf of bread and satisfied the demands of my belly monster.

Not long before I quelled my hunger, I heard a strange noise that seemed out of place in the stillness. Listening closer, I could discern the noise as the tinkling of glass and the scuffling of boxes. Who is doing that? I wondered, rubbing my bleary eyes. In order to find out, I had to go and see.

I stepped into the hallway and heard it again, this time a little bit louder. It was coming from one of the many doors of the mansion: Father’s study. I knew this because there were no other sounds other than the one behind the door.

I approached the closed door, listening. Yes, this was it all right. My hand hovered just above the wood and knocked once, but there was no immediate response. Silence ensued. Then, after another knock, there came a great crash, and without waiting, I pushed the door open.

Upon barging in, I found my father in a state of utter despair, clutching a bottle of champagne and leaning over to his side while hoarding the rest on his desk. He was in midst of absolute clutter, a dramatic contrast to his normal immaculate organization. Father himself was no pretty picture: He seemed disconnected from the world, his eyes staring toward the wall but yet not seeing anything. He raised the bottle to his lips and drank heavily as the liquid poured down his chin. He wiped it off with the cuff of his ruffled shirt, stained with all sorts of color.

“Come in, Christopher,” he said, too tired. “And close the door behind you. I don’t want your Mother to see me like this.”

I did as he told, and nervously approached him. “How are you feeling this morning, Father?”

“Rotten,” he spat. “And don’t tell me that I don’t, because I am.” He sighed and had another sip.

“Father,” I told him, eyeing the bottles all around him, “you shouldn’t drink. It’s bad for your health.”

Father didn’t hear me. He kept downing the bottle in a mad race to finish it. Then he choked and coughed, beating his chest. “Ugh. I despise heartburns. Makes me feel old. As if I need a reminder. Darn him that wicked Mr. Harold. Every time I say his name, it makes want to throw up in disgust.