it all began years ago on a lazy summer afternoon.
we were the most beautiful children of the most beautiful parents. the parents who were all still passed out, on the lawns and around the swimming pools and tennis courts and in the upstairs bedrooms, after the celebration of the inauguration of the new… president, or king, or whatever he called himself…
we children had nothing but contempt for politics, as we had for all the activities of our elders.
it was dorian who finally broke the ennui of the day.
he got up and said, “i am leaving.”
nobody objected, so off he went.
that left florian, adrian, hadrian, j j, betsy, and me.
after that, we just lay around in our usual stupor until florian said something.
florian was the chatty cathy of the gang. unlike the rest of us, he never went a whole day without saying something.
“i think we are showing great weakness,” florian said, but nobody answered.
“but you don’t want advice from me,” he continued, and got up and went outside.
he did not understand friendship quite in the same way we did.
i, myself, was the most wicked and abandoned child of the lot.
i saw florian outside, walking around the passed out bodies on the lawn.
“let me sing a song to comfort you,” he sang. florian liked to sing. and dance, too, he was a very energetic boy.
he was always trying to get people to understand him. and to understand themselves, whatever that meant.
he made it too interesting to pass up.
at least he tried. suddenly one of the old ladies lying on the lawn reached out and grabbed his ankle and he fell on top of her.
still singing his song.
after that i stopped watching, because we are all victims.
victims in the rainy afternoon, because just then it started to rain.
i’m a victim, you are a victim, we are all victims.
adrian was the commander of a vast shadowy army.
some day there would be a definite end to his pretensions.
because, after all, what are friends for?
in our dark suits and immaculate white shirts.
but i was the most wicked and abandoned child.
in my dark glasses and immaculate white undies.
nobody ever really notices anything.
if they did, there would definitely be an end to all this nonsense.
a servant arrived, with an interesting tray of drinks and hors-d’oeuvres.
he looked like a victim, like he had seen and done things too terrible to describe.
like he did not understand friendship and loyalty in quite the same way as people like us.
even wicked creatures like myself and the gang.
he was the commander of a vast army of lost souls.
but he didn’t want advice from me.
sources: jane eyre, by charlotte bronte;
wuthering heights, by emily bronte;
alice’s adventures in wonderland, by lewis carroll;
the turn of the screw, by henry james;
the counterfeiters, by andre gide;
chivalry, by rafael sabatinni;
1984, by george orwell;
vengeance is mine, by mickey spillane;
one lonely night, by mickey spillane;
on the road, by jack kerouac;
the bell jar, by sylvia plath.