In the dimly lit confines of his room, Nico Paolo sat at his small writing desk, the scratching of his quill against parchment the only sound breaking the silence. On his last break between festival gigs, he found himself journaling about his birthday, reflecting on the emotions and thoughts that swirled within and around him.
"I feel like I'm floating above it all, watching but not participating. Life is a grand play I'm only half-watching. Mist creeps in daily, anyway, shrouding everything in uncertainty, so why should I care so much?! I don't even feel like a real boy!"
His hand trembled slightly as he wrote, the words a stark contrast to the composed performer the world knew. Setting down his quill, Nico leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the window where the last traces of daylight were fading. The festival's distant sounds filtered through, a reminder of the world he both belonged to and felt so disconnected from.
With a restless energy coursing through him, Nico decided to take a walk. Perhaps the evening air would clear his mind or at least provide a distraction from the tumultuous thoughts plaguing him.
Multitasking once more, he strolled the festooned and highly populated streets while he journaled. Eventually, he stopped scribing, slowed his pace, composed his face, and drifted his gaze upwards to avoid collisions as he began to skim old entries. Memories came flooding back, like the time he wrote: "My family's a mess… Father's losing his mind and his kindness, too. Mother's cruel, except when she thinks I'm little again, then she's almost kind.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
As he continued his leisurely stroll through the vibrant piazzas, he couldn't shake off the lingering emotions from his journal entries. The festival's lively atmosphere and sweet melodies seemed to fade into the background as his thoughts remained with his family's turmoil.
Stopping his stroll once again to intentionally rest, he sat on an especially ornate bench to reread a particular entry that sirened him daily.
"Today, Mother was lucid for a moment and asked me to cut Father's hair without lucid consent. I was so eager to please her, to prove myself! I carefully trimmed his tangled locks, making him look neat and tidy again. But, when he saw himself in the mirror, he went mad! He screamed and cried, distraught over the loss of his long hair! Mother didn't defend me, didn't say a word. Instead she scolded me, accused me of trying to hurt him on purpose! Then, Father's hands came at me like claws! He beat my head with his palms and fingers, yanking me up by the hair! I thought he'd kill me! But Mother finally stopped him, her voice calm and gentle. She looked at me like I was a little boy again. She took me to her bed, away from Father's rage. She tried to cuddle me, apologize, but I pushed her away! Not ‘tiI I saw Father's eyes, still wild and crazy, did I let her hold me and whisper sorries in my ear."
As Nico closed his journal and cleared his voice box, he felt a strange detachment, as if the words he'd written belonged to someone else. He felt bad for himself, yes, but only in an interpersonal way.