Alexfic ...
“Do not dub me that,” I uttered.
“What?”
I uttered it before I could waver. “I will take care of Mother and Little Igor.”
“What?” he repeated, becoming even more wrathful.
I compulsed myself to declare what I have always feared to, and always deserved to.
“You can go away and never return. It will not even make you less of a father.” Now his anger had risen, and I should have known better, but I was angry, too.
“I will kill you!” he shouted, and he cast me down to the floor. His eyes were full of madness, and I could not look into them.
“I will kill you,” I uttered. He shook me.
“Say it to my face, not to the floor.”
“You are not my father.” It was severe and wrathful.
Perhaps his anger had retreated then, for he slowly liberated his grip on my shoulders and stared in shock. Perhaps it was merely cultivating to something I had not witnessed previous. I heard his footsteps fade away as I fell into an unconsciousness.
My dreams were interspersed with nightmares. There was Trachimbrod, and there was Jonathan, and Grandfather, and Father, and I do not know what has been written by The Collector, and what has been written by me, and what is real and what is not real. When I awoke, Father had departed , and it was morning.
I located Grandfather in the bathtub perhaps half an hour after I awoke. I did not perceive the blood at first, because I did not want it to be real. Mother was walking towards the bathroom, and stopped at the door.
“Alexi-stop-spleening-me?” I could not look up as I explicated. We stood in silence for a short duration that seemed unequivocally long, and then we carried out all the arrangements that one in this situation is to perform. Afterwards, we retrieved Little Igor so that we could vacate our house with him, so he wouldn’t see Grandfather’s slit wrists, which had ceased to bleed, but were still quite apparent and frightening.
He was sitting, eating cereal which he presumably had poured milk on himself, as a small amount was splashed over the table. He discerned that something was amiss immediately. I told you he was a genius.
“Little Igor …” Mother uttered quietly. It was a story that Mother and I had cognated so that Little Igor would not have to know. Or, perhaps, not have to know just yet.
My life will continue, regardless of all that has occurred. I must not reveal excessively of my melancholiness, for I do not want to make Mother and Little Igor any more so than they had already become.
We dispensed dirt on his grave today, which was proximal to the monument at Trachimbrod, in memory of Herschel, and all the others. I felt so much like you should have been there, too, and known the peace on the field. As I have said previously, with writing, we have second chances. Perhaps Grandfather will meet them in death, and Herschel will forgive. I think this would make a first-rate story. I should be the one to write it, if it is to be written of at all.
“What?”
I uttered it before I could waver. “I will take care of Mother and Little Igor.”
“What?” he repeated, becoming even more wrathful.
I compulsed myself to declare what I have always feared to, and always deserved to.
“You can go away and never return. It will not even make you less of a father.” Now his anger had risen, and I should have known better, but I was angry, too.
“I will kill you!” he shouted, and he cast me down to the floor. His eyes were full of madness, and I could not look into them.
“I will kill you,” I uttered. He shook me.
“Say it to my face, not to the floor.”
“You are not my father.” It was severe and wrathful.
Perhaps his anger had retreated then, for he slowly liberated his grip on my shoulders and stared in shock. Perhaps it was merely cultivating to something I had not witnessed previous. I heard his footsteps fade away as I fell into an unconsciousness.
My dreams were interspersed with nightmares. There was Trachimbrod, and there was Jonathan, and Grandfather, and Father, and I do not know what has been written by The Collector, and what has been written by me, and what is real and what is not real. When I awoke, Father had departed , and it was morning.
I located Grandfather in the bathtub perhaps half an hour after I awoke. I did not perceive the blood at first, because I did not want it to be real. Mother was walking towards the bathroom, and stopped at the door.
“Alexi-stop-spleening-me?” I could not look up as I explicated. We stood in silence for a short duration that seemed unequivocally long, and then we carried out all the arrangements that one in this situation is to perform. Afterwards, we retrieved Little Igor so that we could vacate our house with him, so he wouldn’t see Grandfather’s slit wrists, which had ceased to bleed, but were still quite apparent and frightening.
He was sitting, eating cereal which he presumably had poured milk on himself, as a small amount was splashed over the table. He discerned that something was amiss immediately. I told you he was a genius.
“Little Igor …” Mother uttered quietly. It was a story that Mother and I had cognated so that Little Igor would not have to know. Or, perhaps, not have to know just yet.
My life will continue, regardless of all that has occurred. I must not reveal excessively of my melancholiness, for I do not want to make Mother and Little Igor any more so than they had already become.
We dispensed dirt on his grave today, which was proximal to the monument at Trachimbrod, in memory of Herschel, and all the others. I felt so much like you should have been there, too, and known the peace on the field. As I have said previously, with writing, we have second chances. Perhaps Grandfather will meet them in death, and Herschel will forgive. I think this would make a first-rate story. I should be the one to write it, if it is to be written of at all.