they dredged icarus up from the sea today; wings bedraggled, tangled in the nets of those who tried to raise his body before. but he would not ascend; he learned his lesson.
I am growing frayed at the ends by this conversation; it wears on me, quite unexpectedly. It seems frivolous; perhaps even meaningless. I nearly regret approaching her, but being a man unaccustomed to regret, I cannot bring myself to do so. Not yet. Even as she compliments my son’s name (should I tell her, I wonder, that I did not decide it?) and remarks on what a shame it is he does not look like me.
Truly, I cannot imagine him in adulthood; I do not know if he stands straight and as tall as I, or if he inherited his mother’s slighter build. I will never know, and this is one of the burdens of my life I have long-since come to terms with.
(Of course, it might have been different. And that possible “other” is the thing that haunts me the most, the what-ifs and the could-have-beens. Some days I hate all that Boudika had been, but know that hatred stems not just from the truth of her, but from her betrayal, and from what she broke within me. It might have been different, I know, if she had been the mother of my child--if somehow we had changed Oresziah, if we had made it our mission to shed light on her truth in a way that was favourable rather than damning, if, if, if--)
If I had not betrayed her so, as she had betrayed me.
(And that child, that what-if-child, that child of love and comradeship and never-have-beens… that is a child of bones in my heart, with red eyes and gold skin and the uncrackable potential of all that I had ever loved, and lost, and wanted--)
“No,” I correct. It is the first edge of hardness that has entered my voice tonight. “It is not a good excuse. But some children are better off without their fathers.” The implication is clear: mine is better off without me, a father who would detest it, a father who would look at him and see everything that he was not instead of all that he could be.
I listen to her raptly--more raptly than I think she deserves. But there is something transfixing about the furious undercurrent to her words; the defensive way she dons them, as if it is I who is offending her. My mouth curls a wry line. “Elena, I had only been joking. I’ll admit to my faults, and if what you need of me is to blame me for your lover’s transgressions, so be it.” I shrug, and glance over her shoulder. The night is still young, and I thought I had caught a glimpse of Adonai. My eyes return to hers, a brow arched. “I’ve already told you, I care nothing for your daughter. Parent her however you please.”
Her anger already reeks of desperation, and the girl is not even grown. “My excuse is the same excuse you give your daughter’s father, and claim it is for the better. The difference, Elena? I’ve never claimed to be good. I won’t waste my breath on it. I never lied to the mother about love, or forevers. I didn’t want anything from her.” She had known. She had known, because our intimacy was not intimate; and “love” was a word I reserved for those who--
In a moment of sudden transparency, I recognise that I have never confessed love to anyone, not truly. The realisation shocks me. I stare at Elena, almost dumbfounded. “I--no. I never told her anything at all.”
I am not sure who he is speaking of, now. If it is Cillian, or Boudika, or Bondike, or--
Acknowledging it--the fact I had never admitted my feelings… I say aloud, “No. I never told the person who means more to me than anyone that I loved them.” It is clear I am not talking about the mother of my child. I ask myself: why and cannot answer. The anger I had felt, the exhaustion--it tapers off into no feeling at all, a coin tossed into a well that sinks and then, abruptly, is gone.
No feeling is worth it. To delve any deeper would be a tearing of sutures, a removal of something vital. A heart, I think.
Truly, I cannot imagine him in adulthood; I do not know if he stands straight and as tall as I, or if he inherited his mother’s slighter build. I will never know, and this is one of the burdens of my life I have long-since come to terms with.
(Of course, it might have been different. And that possible “other” is the thing that haunts me the most, the what-ifs and the could-have-beens. Some days I hate all that Boudika had been, but know that hatred stems not just from the truth of her, but from her betrayal, and from what she broke within me. It might have been different, I know, if she had been the mother of my child--if somehow we had changed Oresziah, if we had made it our mission to shed light on her truth in a way that was favourable rather than damning, if, if, if--)
If I had not betrayed her so, as she had betrayed me.
(And that child, that what-if-child, that child of love and comradeship and never-have-beens… that is a child of bones in my heart, with red eyes and gold skin and the uncrackable potential of all that I had ever loved, and lost, and wanted--)
“No,” I correct. It is the first edge of hardness that has entered my voice tonight. “It is not a good excuse. But some children are better off without their fathers.” The implication is clear: mine is better off without me, a father who would detest it, a father who would look at him and see everything that he was not instead of all that he could be.
I listen to her raptly--more raptly than I think she deserves. But there is something transfixing about the furious undercurrent to her words; the defensive way she dons them, as if it is I who is offending her. My mouth curls a wry line. “Elena, I had only been joking. I’ll admit to my faults, and if what you need of me is to blame me for your lover’s transgressions, so be it.” I shrug, and glance over her shoulder. The night is still young, and I thought I had caught a glimpse of Adonai. My eyes return to hers, a brow arched. “I’ve already told you, I care nothing for your daughter. Parent her however you please.”
Her anger already reeks of desperation, and the girl is not even grown. “My excuse is the same excuse you give your daughter’s father, and claim it is for the better. The difference, Elena? I’ve never claimed to be good. I won’t waste my breath on it. I never lied to the mother about love, or forevers. I didn’t want anything from her.” She had known. She had known, because our intimacy was not intimate; and “love” was a word I reserved for those who--
In a moment of sudden transparency, I recognise that I have never confessed love to anyone, not truly. The realisation shocks me. I stare at Elena, almost dumbfounded. “I--no. I never told her anything at all.”
I am not sure who he is speaking of, now. If it is Cillian, or Boudika, or Bondike, or--
Acknowledging it--the fact I had never admitted my feelings… I say aloud, “No. I never told the person who means more to me than anyone that I loved them.” It is clear I am not talking about the mother of my child. I ask myself: why and cannot answer. The anger I had felt, the exhaustion--it tapers off into no feeling at all, a coin tossed into a well that sinks and then, abruptly, is gone.
No feeling is worth it. To delve any deeper would be a tearing of sutures, a removal of something vital. A heart, I think.
