The Art of Melancholia

Left for Dead

If I was granted one wish it would be for everything to be exactly the same forever - except maybe my father could've been nicer to my mother. I could've wished for something better but I was the kind of person who aggressively let life happen to them. It was the only thing I knew. Honestly I could've lived as I did then for another ten, twenty, or fifty years. I could've survived my father. I could've outgrew my childhood. I could have - if only my brother hadn't left me.

In the little hours after the masquerade I awoke and getting sick. A few hours more my brother shook me from my nauseated drowse.

"Fuck off," I groaned into my pillow. An intense headache seared into my temples.

"He wants to see us," he said rough in my ear. I signed and rolled over. Of course he did. I was right - as always. I sat up in bed and rubbed my face and the sudden motion nauseated me even more. I steadied myself on the bed pole. I only glanced at myself in the mirror to see if I was somewhat presentable. The pink suit I fell asleep in was wrinkled and wax-stained but I didn't care.

"Are you going to change?"

"No - fuck no - just walk."

"Fine."

"Stop yelling at me."

"I'm not yelling."

My eyes burned from the early sunlight as we both stood before our father. I attempted to gauge his mood but he was never someone who I could decipher. Annoyed at my brother and myself for thinking he wanted my company I regretted inciting my father's anger over something so inconsequential.

"Where were you?" he said in his affected sang-froid.

"At the Royale," said oddly sardonic, "the Duc hosted a masquerade - we just had to go."

I focused my sight before me as I felt them stare at each other. I didn't want him to be punished and I wanted whatever was going to happen to end as soon as possible. Despite everything I was still willing to sacrifice myself for him - because he was my brother.

"It was my idea," I said in a quiet but inarticulate mumble.

My father barely looked at me and gritted, "shut up."

"You think you can leave as you wish? Attend such filth and send your mother into hysterics when she found the both of you gone? The disrespect you show me - show our house while you gallivant around-"

"I can do what I want."

I then actually wanted to kill myself as a deep silence fell down upon the room. I tried to fade the world out around me as my brother smirked and my father rose from the desk.

"Get out!"

"Yes Monseigneur,' I muttered and relieved to get out of the room. As I dragged myself back to my room I heard splices of two-sided yelling and insults though I didn't pay attention to the words - I was too sick to care.

Of course I didn't escape his wrath either - that happened later. Neither did I escape my mother's disappointment. Once back home I had to spend many weeks begging for God's forgiveness with many visits of her confessor for whatever in her mind I got myself into that night. While I could bear my father's, her disappointment was too high of a price to pay for something that gave me absolutely nothing to begin with.

After a day of many tirades from every angle imaginable I spent the rests of the day in bed. Deprived of any meals and not having an appetite I slept the rest of the evening away.

"Charles," I heard a hushed whisper say, "get up."

Still Drowsed, I didn't get up until I felt his hands on me. I jolted up and saw his face in his candle's light.