The Perfect Act

Melancholy

THE PERFECT ACT

Seven: Melancholy

"Where is he?!" Ivar's head shot up when he recognized his mother's voice. He got up from his chair, and his parents ran towards him. He could see his mother's mouth moving, but he didn't hear anything. Even if he had any information, he couldn't share it with them; he was denied to see his brother, the siblings were talking to the police with their father, and Ivar was forced to sit and wait for a guardian to come.

A doctor had appeared, and Ivar's mother had dragged him behind them into a small room. Ivar stared at the bed from the doorway, his brother's body covered with a sheet so thin, he almost yelled that Fitz was too cold. His mother crumpled by the edge, her grief not even allowing her to sit on the stool provided. Her hands gripped through the sheets onto lifeless limbs, begging her god to bring back her son.

Ivar stared at his father who sat on a chair next to his wife, stroking her back. His face held the most grief Ivar had ever seen, but he refused to shed a tear. Ivar was the opposite; his face showed no emotion, but snot and tears were evident from his red, puffy face to his already damp shirt.

A knock at the door startled the entire family. Ivar stared at the police that was interrogating Arlen earlier. He looked them up and down distastefully and backed into a corner. "Sorry to bother you right now, we just want to give our condolences."

His father stood from his chair and patted the officer on the back. "Thank you, Randall." He looked back at his wife who was still sobbing next to the bed. "Let's talk outside." The three men walked out, shutting Ivar in the room; the loud sobs making him feel like there were two fallen instead of one. He could barely hear the voices outside the room, but every word audible angered him.

"...they were drunk...in a fight...accident...no suspects..."

Ivar ripped open the door, the three men turning in alarm. "Dad, that's not what happened. They attacked Fitz! Ask Arlen!"

"Come on kid, let us handle this." One police officer spoke up, looking back at his father.

"Dad, Arlen was there. Go and ask him!" Ivar pleaded, his trust in the law disappearing.

"Arlen? Is that the gay kid?" The other officer enquired. Ivar wasn't sure if he should nod his head or deny it in front of his father, but before he had time to decide his father had already spoken up.

"No. He's not gay. My son wouldn't be friends with that." He looked disgusted as if that would have been worse than his dead son.

"We thought so too. I told Randall that Benji wouldn't have a kid like that." The man patted his father as if he won the lottery.

Were they not going to listen? Ivar thought to a few hours earlier when Arlen had tried to explain over and over what happened, but they had turned a blind eye to him the moment they heard about his sexuality. He looked at Randall, who had a son in high school as well, yet his compassion seemed missing with his friend's loss.

Ivar spun on his heel, walking away from the talking adults, their conversation turning into nonsensical chatter.

He sat alone again, thinking about every detail Arlen had told him. How could his parents not listen? How could his father turn a blind eye rather than hear about his son being murdered by homophobes? His thoughts rushed wildly in his mind, he barely noticed someone sitting next to him.

There was a pat on his back and he looked up, seeing his good friend Brian. Suddenly he felt like crying again and fell into his friend's arms. Brian hugged him tightly, patting his back soothingly. "I'm sorry, Ivar." He pulled away from his friend, sniffing and wiping his face.