Neliarax
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Chapter 2 — Reunion
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 15:41:08 +0000 UTCI hesitantly turned the handle, and slowly cracked the door open. There stood my mother. Her long and straight dyed-blonde hair—originally she was a brunette—, falling down in waves to her shoulders, and her piercing brown eyes, gazing intently at me. She had an elegant and poised posture, with her shoulders held high and her chin tilted slightly upwards. If coldness were to have a form, she'd be the embodiment of it.
She was wearing a black pencil skirt that clung to her slender hips, and a white silk shirt that accentuated her figure, with a matching suit jacket, draped over her arm. Basically, she was in her uniform. Her outfit was completed by a pair of black heels that made a distinct click-clack noise against the wooden floor, and her signature perfume lingered in the air. It's an odd scent that mixes jasmine, vanilla, rose and sandalwood. But I've gotten used to it, by now.
She's a very strict and distant person, and rarely shows emotion. She's the type of parent that doesn't deserve a child. We weren't close at all, and that's not just because she's always at work. That much would be fine, but the issue is that...Well, let's just say she's a difficult person to please and understand. No amount of effort on my part to bond with her was enough, or worth the trouble. She was an impossible wall, and an immovable mountain. Indifferent and aloof, to a degree that was both infuriating and disheartening. But I had accepted that, a long time ago. There's nothing to be done, at this point. We have a business relationship, that's it. She doesn't really have any feelings, for me, as a person.
And that was perfectly fine. I was fine. Or so, that was the facade I showed. In fact, that was a lie. Even now, her indifference still stung. Like a thorn, stuck in the depths of a wound. It was painful. Always was, and will always remain to be, forever. I couldn't bring myself to look at her, and my eyes were locked onto the floor.
What child doesn't crave love, from his own mother? I was a disappointment to her . A burden. Someone she saw, not as a human being, or even a tool to be used. I wasn't...
Well, it doesn't matter. I know what this is about, anyway. She wants to get something off her chest, and will leave soon, like always.
I opened my closet under her astonished eyes —not at the action itself, no, that wouldn't phase her at all, but at the audacity of ignoring her presence— and picked some clothes without a single word. I changed, from this tasteless outfit of the past, into a better, more comfortable attire. Some dark blue jeans and a gray sweater. There, that's better, I guess. Oh, and some socks and city shoes. That'll do.
"Where are my hair ties now, huh..." I said, as I searched on my desk.
"Are you ignoring me?" She said, with an annoyed tone. "How did you change so quickly?" I can hear a hint of surprise, in her usually monotonous and mechanical voice, that makes the words feel somewhat alien, and out of character.
Yeah, yeah. Well, what can I say, I'm not in the mood to deal with you, at the moment.
I clicked my tongue, and shrugged, as I finally spotted two hair ties, and tied my hair in a messy bun. There we go, perfect.
"I'm going out. See you," I answered curtly. I tried to move past her, and to exit the apartment, to get some fresh air, but she blocked my way. Ah, shit. I'm in trouble, aren't I? Here comes a lecture.
"What's gotten into you?" She was staring at me, with her eyes wide open. The corners of her lips were slightly curved downwards. It was the expression she wore, whenever she was displeased. An expression that I had seen far too often. And, that's exactly what I was trying to avoid, in the first place.
"How about we stop this game of pretend? We both know, neither of us care," I said. I didn't have to see her eyes. Just the sound of her breath, and the silence that followed, told me all that I needed to know. "You don't want anything to do with me, and I feel the exact same way. So, why are you pretending to be a good mom? You're bad at acting. You're not suited to be a parent."
The moment those words were spoken, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake, and crossed the line. I didn't expect that, at all. My mind was a chaotic whirlwind of confusion, and uncertainty. Where did this come from?
Her hand, clenched tightly into a fist, swung at me in an attempt to land a blow. I didn't bother to dodge. It connected with my cheek, sending a sharp pain reverberating through my body. I staggered backwards before readjusting my posture. For a moment, we just stared at each other. Then, a sigh escaped my lips, and I shook my head. This is a waste of time.
"Are we done here?"
She didn't answer, and I stepped around her. This conversation is over. Let's go, shall we?
— ✧ —
The 8th of May is the day of the celebration of the Victory of 1945. In other words, a national holiday. And the best kind of day. Because, during that particular day, you can go outside. Explore. Relax. Have fun. There's nothing open. No school. No stores. Only the essentials. You're free. Truly free. There are no boring chores or annoying classes, to drag your soul down to hell.
Paris was, of course, a mess, as it usually was. But less than when that mayor got elected in a few years. I can't remember the name, though. I've already forgotten, because she wasn't important.
"I'm not dead. At least, not entirely," A sigh, as I tried to collect myself, to focus. "So, that means, I have to play his game." I said to myself. He wants a reaction, doesn't he? Something entertaining to watch. I won't give him that pleasure.
As I walked the streets of Paris, I couldn't shake the sense of unease that hung in the air, and weighed heavy on my shoulders. It was as if a thousand pairs of eyes were following me, watching my every move. And then, it happened. I noticed that something distorted was present on every reflective surface that caught my eye, and I didn't like that at all. On every mirror, on every window, on the cars, the buildings, the metal and the glass, and even the puddles on the asphalt. They all had one thing in common.
It was that smiley, drawn in red. The symbol of the Author that had tormented me earlier. It was a sick joke. That bastard was stalking me. Watching, waiting, and laughing at my expense.
I picked the note and read it again and again. I stared at the text. The letters. I could see them move, shift, distort and change shape, and form, as if they were trying to escape, to slip away from reality. They were taunting me, mocking me, daring me to find a flaw. A weakness. An error. But I couldn't.
"If his moniker is the Author, that must mean that the world, and everyone in it, is a story that's written. But, if so, that means I'm a character in it. However, the question is: am I His character? Or a foreign element?" I pondered, to no avail. I didn't have the information that I needed. So, for the time being, the mystery remained unsolved, and unanswered.
But, every time my tongue dared to pronounce my name...It felt wrong.
"Why can't I say my name?" I asked while looking at my reflection in the water, hoping that it would respond. It didn't, obviously. The face of a young boy, fear and confusion written in his features.
—So, I am freaking out, after all, huh.
"My name is — — — — — — —." The name comes out strange and muffled. Like static. Or white noise. Weird. Is that supposed to happen? Whatever, probably just the stress getting to me. Nothing to worry about. Right?
Right, of course. But the more I repeated my own name, the stranger it sounded. Until the point where it didn't feel like mine anymore. Not a single letter, nor syllable. It's a weird sensation. I'm aware of the sounds that come from my throat, and that's the correct combination, I'm pretty sure that's the right combination, at the very least.
"Of course, I should worry..."
But no, that can't be, can it? I mean, that'd imply that I'm losing my sense of identity. My sense of self. I can't have forgotten my name, have I? I was still here. Still thinking. Breathing. Feeling. Existing. That can't have vanished, right?
For a brief moment, I could swear the reflection on the water shattered. It was like a reflection of my sanity. Of the fragile state of mind, and the broken pieces that lay at the bottom of a dark pit, at the bottom of the abyss that's staring back at me. The eyes of a stranger. Someone that I no longer recognize. The shards of glass were falling, in a slow, agonising pace. Time seemed to stand still. Frozen. Stagnant. Dead. I reached to touch the fragments, and a sharp pain pierced through me.
"We humans need an anchor, a foundation. What is the core of my existence? Am I simply a vessel, a construct of flesh and bones, a puppet controlled by an invisible force? Or, am I the author of my own destiny, capable of steering the rudder of my fate, and forging my own path?"
Not a physical one, no. There was no wound. No blood. It was an emotion. A sensation that tore apart everything that I knew, and left a gaping hole in the place where the concept of me used to reside. And when the glass was put back together, and repaired, the figure was not mine. Not anymore.
"Then, what does it make of me, and who defines the narrative that guides my footsteps? The lines of code that dictate the rules of the game. Who holds the quill, and who is the reader, the spectator, the audience of this spectacle?"
A shadow, an impostor, wearing my face. Pretending to be me. Trying to take my place.
No, I'm the one pretending to be him. I'm the fake. The counterfeit. The fraud. The lie. And, somehow, that revelation brought a smile to my lips. A twisted grin, a reflection of the madness, and the absurdity that I had found. How could it be that something that had defined and anchored my entire life for twenty-nine long miserable years could crumble just like that?
"What makes me the person that I claim to be?"
In that instant, I had lost myself.
"So, I'm just someone else's plaything, in the end, huh."
And, yet, I had found freedom, in the form of despair.
"Is this his way of breaking me, then?"
I laughed at that realization, a deep resonant sound tinged with bitterness and a glimpse of hysteria.
You and I are both writers." I tapped the glass of a car, and, to emphasize my words, to illustrate, and to highlight the absurdity, and the insanity of the whole affair... I wrote my name on the reflective surface with a finger.
But to no avail, unfortunately. Just like how an ice cream would melt in the summer sun, in a matter of seconds. And the writing, along with the proof of its existence, was gone. Wiped clean, as if nothing had ever been there. Not a mark, not a line, not a sign. Nothing. As if it was never here. As if it was never there, at all.
—As if my own identity had faded away.
"But I've decided that the book that is called my life won't be penned by anyone other than me. I'm the protagonist of this novel. I won't be the antagonist of a tragedy, not anymore. I've lived a boring, bland, mediocre life. Filled to the brim with suffering and regret. Why should I suffer more, when I've had enough already?" I declared to no one in particular. Maybe, in truth, the declaration was made to the Author.
They took my cat, and, in the process, they hurt her.
They had the audacity to think that I wouldn't do anything. That I wouldn't retaliate, and wouldn't strike back, at the one who dared to touch her.
"I've always been a lazy person. Never doing anything with passion, never trying hard enough. I always settled for mediocrity. But that was the past, now. From today onward, things will be different. You will pay the price for daring to touch Lia. I won't let that slide. Not now, and not ever."
"Watch me, Author." I whispered to the void, to the abyss that had taken everything from me. To the smile that was drawn in crimson, on every window and puddle, and that mocked me, from behind the corner. To the unseen observer, to the unseen reader, to the unseen writer.
"Watch me destroy myself to go against you." Those were the words, and the last sentence that I pronounced. The ones that marked the end of an era, and the start of another. One where I had no control whatsoever. One that was shaped, and determined, by forces beyond my reach, and understanding.
And, I had no idea how to proceed.
