Supper of Escapism

They told me to pack my things. They told me that after supper, I'll be leaving, and to get ready.

I walk quietly, slowly, along the dark corridor leading to the living room. The incessant noises of laughter, incoherant voices and tinkering of glasses are already driving me mad. My hands in my pockets I glance downward, inspecting the dust and debris on the red mat. The wooden boards underneath are creaking as I approach the ajar door, where our guests are celebrating.

I idle and wait. I fidget with my pocket watch, that I broke earlier today, secretly hoping someone, anyone would notice me and come see me, to tell me to go back to my room, to leave them alone. No one comes, in fact the festivities grow louder, as I push the door open.

The living room shines in a sort of twilight, almost blinding to me, and all around the massive oak table the guests are sitting, standing and talking, clutching their wine glasses, and pouring some for their friends and some more for themselves. At the very end of the room, lazy lights manage to make it inside, twinkling on the walls around the curtains blocking the patio door, that leads to the balcony.

I close the door, and to my horror it slams, halting the celebrations, to an uneasy silence. I glance toward the mass of people gazing at me, with their squinting eyes, their hollow faces. I apologize, feeling my cheeks turning red, and I walk toward the table, for a place to sit, anywhere. All the seats are taken, and I look like an idiot circling around the table, frantically searching for a spot, a tiny corner for me to sit, anywhere.

Next to the fireplace, an empty chair, I hurry and sit at last. To my right, a bunch of older men are engaged in a serious discussion, about war or something. They are holding to their glasses of wine with both hands, as they look downward, talking in a solemn, deep voice, about some stories of trenches and battlefields. The one with the long black hair is adjusting an old radio, its antennas almost touching the chandelier above the table. I can barely hear the static of the channels, it seems nothing is being broadcasted tonight.

Sitting to my left, almost glowing, is a girl about my age, also holding a glass of wine, that she tastes ever so often, grimacing. I pour myself a glass of water and ask her, out of genuine curiosity :

- Wine is disgusting, why are you forcing yourself to drink?

She stares at me, and I can't quite make sense of her expression, and she answers, as if stating the obvious :

- Well everyone else is drinking it, except you I see.

She raises her glass, toasting, and takes a big sip, that she pretends to swallow, only to spit it back in her glass, almost subtly. I pretend not to notice, holding back a rare laughter. I ask her, what is she doing here, surely not hoping to get as drunk as the old men over there. She laughs quietly, and points to the end of the table, to a man sitting in an armchair, his moustache making him stand out from others. The man, dressed in all black, is holding a glass of whisky and a cigar, that he alternates to his mouth. The girl gets closer to me, and almost whispers in my ear, he's my dad.

She tells me that he didn't tell her what they were going to do after supper.

She clears her voice and asks me where my own father is, and I laugh a bit too loudly. She stares at me, waiting for an answer.

-Well you see, I haven't seen him in about three years. Ever seen I moved here, with my caretakers...

- So, you're telling me, you live here? She says, piercing me with her eyes.

I fidget a bit more with my broken pocket watch, as I struggle to explain my situation. I'm about to answer when I feel the ground rumble, shake, and the empty plates and lonely glasses harmonizes with the tremors. We both sit there, eyes locked in disbelief, as time sits still, except for what we assume to be an earthquake. Yet the guests didn't seem to mind the rumbling, they barely aknowledged it. A few minutes later and it's as though nothing happened. I break our silence :

- If something, I should be the one drinking wine.

- And why is that? She asks me, her own glass still full.

- Well, after years of threatening me, my caretakers finally decided. Tonight, after supper, I'll have to leave.

She doesn't seem to know what to think. She says :

- Leave? They're kicking you out? But to go where?

- They didn't tell me. I assume, back to my mother's.

I manage to say, fighting back my tears. I can't cry here, and not in front of her.

She actually starts to cry, softly, and offers me her glass of wine, with a half-smile. I take it, and bring it close to my lips, yet the smell is putrid to me. I put it on the table, between us, as her tears turn into laughter. She apologizes.

I ask her, why are you crying? She answers, almost instantly :

- The same thing happened to me. I was actually living with my mother. One day she got angry, and told me to pack my things.

- And you had to go live with your father? I ask her, already knowing.

- Yes, even though he is always very busy, he took me in.

As she says that, she looks away once more, to her dad in the armchair. She continues :

- But no matter what, it felt as if my life had ended that day. That day when mother told me to go away.

As I am about to answer, the fireplace crackles, and sparks fly above us. I turn around, grab the poker and fiddle on the half-burnt logs. She turns around as well, and we sit in silence, watching the fire fight to stay lit. I'm about to put another log in, but she tells me, no need. We lock eyes once more, until the radio chatters loudly and a voice can be heard, amongst the cacophony of the living room. Something about the advance of the enemy, the honor of the brave, before the old man shuts it down violently. That time, the silence is there to stay, it seems.

From that silence, echoing as softly as possible, the muffled moaning of a woman, coming from upstairs. I can't stop myself from coughing, and around us the guests seems to hurry and start their conversations once more. How awkward, I tell her, and she laughs, looking at my lips. I notice her glass of wine is half-empty now. I'm about to whisper something in her ear, but I freeze at the sound of someone going down the stairs, heavily. Such a horrible sound. Pavlov would be proud. My caretaker appears at the other end of the living room, down the stairs, buckling his belt, looking around furiously. I pretend not to see him, but he comes right for me.

- Did you think I would forget about you, boy? Didn't we tell you, to pack your things, and to get ready?

I stand there, petrified, as he hovers above me. I try to look up yet all I can see is his half erect penis, bulging from his pants. I want to throw up. She is still sitting next to me, holding my hand under the table, looking elsewhere. I tell him that I'm ready, and he starts adressing everyone in the living room, as a sort of comedian. He was clearly the drunkest of all.

- This boy here, has been living under my care for years now. Years!

The guests applauds politely, some encouraging him, as he continues.

- Yet he dares complain and cry, when I finally ask him to leave. How ungrateful!

He is now almost screaming so that all could hear. The guests are laughing and whistling, to my caretaker's joy. Meanwhile I wish I didn't exist, yet I can feel his disgusting hand on my shoulder, holding me in place, telling me, I got you right here. He adds :

- Tell him everyone, it's not the end of the world. There are worse things than that. Life goes on!

He adds even louder, and at that everyone erupts in hysteric laughter, some splurting wine all across the table, other slapping their legs. My caretaker seems ecstatic, his hand clutching me so hard I can't stop squeaking in pain on my chair. I want this to end!

Covering everyone's laughter, a distant roar, growing in intensity. Everyone grows silent, and at last my caretaker let got of me. Yet I can't relax. What is that noise? I get up, looking at everyone, that a second ago were laughing as if there was no tomorrow, and I make my way to the end of the living room, to the curtains. I have to see with my own eyes.

She is right behind me, still holding my hand. I push the curtains to one side, the lazy lights now illuminating the both of us, and I open the patio door, the so very cold air almost waking us up from the madness of the living room. We step outside on the balcony, close the door, and look away, in the distance, to the whir of the airplanes, that we yet can't see.

- Seems like you won't have to leave, after all, she said.

I stand still in disbelief, as the planes appear above the horizon, followed by yet another rumbling. She holds me closer now, and bright blinding lights burns our retinas, distant explosions leveling the city. I take out my broken pocket watch. We look at the seconds, not flowing, as the cold air embrace us.

The sound of the planes grow ever louder, the tremors turn to shockwave as she hug me so tightly that nothing can tear us appart. In her arms, I feel it, for the first and last time. Truth.

And silence, once more, together.