The Degradation (translation)

Because they don't understand

Day 164

New York. 10:56am. Room of one of the most luxurious hotels. Bartholomew Styles is sitting at his huge oak desk. Behind him is a beautiful view of Central Park, and in front of his nose is a mountain of documents that need to be read before today's seminar. The silence is broken by the vibrating phone. He picks up the phone without taking his eyes off the papers.

"Bartholomew Styles."

"Hello, Dad?"

"Harold.

"How was the seminar?"

"Get to the point.

"As you wish. I need five thousand pounds."

"Five thousand pounds?"

"Yes."

"And may I ask why you need so much money?"

"To redo your room."

"Harold."

"What?"

"What happened?"

"Nothing, I just want to change the decor."

"I want to know the real reason. If you buy those fucking drugs again, it's out of the question."

"Stop it! I REALLY want to renovate the room."

"Did you have another attack?"

Silence is the answer to the question he was so afraid to hear. Putting down the piece of paper he hasn't read since he heard his son's voice, he leans back heavily in his chair and runs a hand over his face. Images and memories fill his mind.

Flash Back

February 1, 1994

"Just a little more!" One doctor, two nurses. Screams, moans, a tear-stained face. Two intertwined hands. Stress, fear, and feelings that finally go away as soon as the room is filled with crying. The cry of a newborn.

"You want to cut the umbilical cord?"And one of the most respected doctors in the world turns into a simple man with trembling hands. The hands that have held scalpels, operated on open hearts, and saved lives are trembling in front of an ordinary umbilical cord. A tear slowly trickles down his cheek. Now he's just a father who sees his child for the first time.

***

"No, I haven't had any new attacks."

November 28, 1994

Sitting on a white leather sofa while his ten-month-old son plays on the rug in front of him, he reads a book and feels a small hand grab his pant leg. He looks down and sees his child stand unsteadily on his feet for a few seconds before falling back to the floor. He sits down on his knees in front of it and holds out his hands, smiling happily.

"Come here, Harold, come to Papa." And for the first time, he felt proud of something other than himself. It was the pride of a father who saw his son take his first steps.

***

"Even if there were, it doesn't matter. I'm fine, okay?"

April 16, 1998

Three o'clock in the morning, he returns after 72 hours of duty in the hospital. As he hangs up his coat in the hallway, he hears the sound of broken glass. He runs into the living room to see his wife sleeping on the couch, with a bottle of vodka lying next to her, and his four-year-old son holding a broken glass in his hand.

"Damn it," he says, walking quickly over to him and removing the glass from his hands, but it's too late. The child cuts himself and starts crying. He picks him up.