- ”Don‘t you have anything to say about these times long ago?“, I asked my granfather.
He progressively lost his interest from his phone, and ended up looking me in the eyes.
- ”Those memories are so dim today. I wouldn‘t know where to start.“ He replied.
I lost eye contact for a brief moment and came
back at him eventually:
- ”Maybe just start with the beginning. What do you remember first?“
The old man agreed to lose his phone by dropping it vaguely towards the table.
- ”I remember watching the news in ’94 when Cobain passed away. It reminds me of my mother trying to kill herself when I was young.“
I was shocked. He never answered to me this openly. I felt flooded in anticipation and horror.
- ”How did she tried to kill herself?“ I dared to ask.
- ”Medication overdose
. Probably alcohol too. She was tied to a man she didn‘t love and was cast away from her family. She just couldn‘t handle the kind of things that a fucked up lifetime will bring to you. She was crying.“
- ”Because of the failed attempt?“
- ”She was crying because of the voices. The voices had given her a task, and that unskippable task was to take her own life. The man eventually throwed both of us into the first plane headed to the shithole where I grew up.“
My grandfather then went to make some tea. The season was cold, and he kept chainsmoking cigarettes
to keep his bad lungs warm.
- ”I never had a chance to begin with. The shitty jobs I had to take. The fearmongering women. Then you asking me for this.“
I was ashamed. But I was often ashamed. So it didn‘t feel out of the regular. He came
with the cups of tea so I grabbed one. This way I would stay silent for a few minutes.
The old man took out of his pocket a small dose of cannabis
, that he rolled into a Skins, before lighting it up and taking a deep breath.
- ”This is Hashish
, my boy. It makes you forget about the instant and recollect pieces of your oldest memories. But forget not: for it is a wild beast whose thousand emanations can force you to lose your mind.“
He was perceived in the family as a wise man, so I didn‘t smoke that night.
- ”I grew up in a house with blue shutters. There were twelve of us. The lost boys and girls. Life was rough at the time, and there was no compassion involved. They were told to make citizens out of us, and had neither the proper tools nor the mental to do so.“
- ”Who were ’they‘?“ I asked.
- ”They were the few adults gathered to educate us. Their superior was a blonde hag who adopted some black child while on mission in Brazzaville. Those people once told me that when you raise a child, it is akin to building a house. And every word becomes a brick more or less well cemented. I was far from being the ideal child.“ He admitted. ”For I was caught in a cycle of petty vengeance, like crusading against the low-tier shit
I had to go through.“
By this point his eyes had turned vivid red.
- ”Are you still stuck in it?“
- ”Well, not really, no. When I was living with my aunt, my cousin had managed to get his dirty hands on a chicken leg, which was tossed in my bathtub, scaring me senselessly. So in a plan for a personnal revenge I naturally tried to toss a rabbit‘s eye in his. But my aunt didn‘t allow it, and told me that our little games had to stop. As I saw it she was standing by her son‘s side. It was logic. And so I did.“
- ”The answer was disproportionate, sure, but you had to do something, right?“
- ”You‘re too good of a boy.“