FARDEAU

FARDEAU
by Lestat D. Bratt

         I stared at the glowing numbers on my watch as I fumbled for the light switch in the dark. 10:45 it read. With a heavy sigh, I realized that I still have a number of chapters to read, if I am ever gonna pass my finals exam and graduate. But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to study. There are too many worries in my mind that I cannot concentrate on a single, solitary thing. There are papers to write, and more books to read, reports to deliver and problems to solve.

         “I just don’t have time for all of ‘em.” I muttered, more to myself than to anyone since I’m all alone in this apartment. My three best friends are all having fun. I wouldn’t blame them. It’s Friday night, and they’re single, probably on a date with some gorgeous girl they met. As for me, I’ve never been a social person. Fine, I’m just plain pathetic.

         So I resigned myself to just sleeping, since my mind seem to drift off into the land of nod anyways. I got ready for bed - washed up, got into my pjs and laid down. But sleep doesn’t seem to overcome me, I was feeling restless. After 15 more minutes of trying, I gave up and cursed, then made a mental note to myself not to take so much caffeine.

         I looked around my room, which is disordered as always, to try to find something to do. I picked up my basketball and dribbled it around the apartment. The place looks very much like a typical bachelor pad - messy and with that smell which you just don’t know the origin of. After dribbling the ball about a hundred times I sat down on the couch, not minding at all the assorted magazines and clothes that are scattered on it. The magazines are of no interest since all they ever contain are pictures, and I was ready to try to hit the sack again when I laid my eyes upon a small rectangular black book.

         I remember that book; it was from my high school days, senior year to be exact. It was a book in mythology if memory serves me right. I figured, if overworking myself doesn’t help me get to sleep then maybe boring myself to death would. So I picked up the book and started scanning the pages. No particular myth interested me so I just decided to turn to a page and start reading. My fingers happened to fall on the myth of Hercules. I never understood it before, mainly because I never really read it and just relied on my seatmates during pop quizzes and even finals. But a statement in that story strike something at the back of my mind, something that I have been desperately trying to forget and have succeeded to up to this very moment. What it was I didn’t get to find out as my droopy eyes finally gave in, and in a matter of moments, I was fast asleep.

         In my sleep I must have been dreaming, even though the surroundings seem to be familiar to me, all too familiar. Something’s going on and I have a feeling that I play an important part in it. My dream played out in slow motion, each moment seem to be taking its time to unfold. Then, the pace quickly picked up and soon everything was happening at twice the speed of before. Then before I realized it, I was awake, with large beads of sweat falling down the sides my face, and my breath, deep and heavy. One thought was in my mind - Samantha. I have dreamt of her once again, about that one instant when I saw her last and my world started to fall apart.

         A gust of wind blew through the windows that I have left opened; making my heart beat quicker, and left me shivering in the dark. I closed it quickly and leaned against the wall to its left. The concrete was cold to the touch, like the sweat that has formed pools on my shirt. Then, warm liquid started to make its way from my nostrils down to my upper lip. I shouted obscenities to the dark empty room as I make my way to the bathroom. My nose was bleeding, again. This is how it always happens. I fall into uneasy sleep, wake-up almost screaming and end up in the bathroom covered in blood.

         I washed the red liquid from my pale hands and brushed a piece of tissue against my nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding. When it finally did, I turned the faucet on, cupped my hands, and splashed cold water onto my face. It was then that I looked into the mirror placed right above the sink. The light was reflected on my face, and I was staring directly at my own eyes. For a moment I lost myself and saw instead my father, who looks very much like me. And those eyes, those eyes reminded me of what I had one, and everytime I look at myself they seem to mock me.

         Then I fall into a deep reverie. Slowly I recall my dream, but not as a dream but as reality. The reality of the day, six summers ago, when the exact same thing happened, but I couldn’t find comfort in waking up in my bed. Instead, it was the horror of knowing what had transpired.

         That day was pretty much like it was today. The skies were dark, for days threatening of rain to come but never did, instead delivering cold breezes that made the bare branches of trees sway. It was only a little after six p.m., but it seemed like night had already enveloped the whole city. My parents were going to a family friend’s birthday party, and being the older brother, I was entrusted to take care of the house, and baby sit my sister, Samantha, who was 4 years my junior. Baby sitting was the farthest thing from my mind, especially if it’s my sister. She whines a lot, and act more like a 6-year-old than eight. But don’t get me wrong, I loved her, just like how an older brother loves his dear sister, always looking out for her and taking care of her. Besides, it was Tuesday and my favorite TV show was on.

         Mom and Dad have not left for more than 10 minutes when my sister started her incessant whining. She wanted to play some board game that I’m too old for, but I had to go along with her, or else she’ll make up some story and make me the bad guy. So we took out the game and she set it on the floor as I turn on the TV. Twenty minutes later, I was bored playing with her and my attention was all directed to the TV. The Chicago Bulls were playing, and I was closely watching the moves Michael Jordan was doing on the court.

         “Hey, it’s your turn, Butthead,” Samantha said.

         I tried to ignore her and concentrated on what the commentator was saying and on the stats being displayed on the screen.

         She tried again, but to no avail. I wanted to tell her to shut up but before I could she grabbed the remote control from my hand.

         “Mom said I can watch any show I want,” she said as she changed the channel to some girly TV show on channel 12 while adding, “Besides, it’s your turn”.

         That started one of our patented bickering. I was quickly losing my temper, as she continues to make threats of telling on me to my dad when I heard a rumbling. I stared at the door, half-afraid that that might be my parents coming home. But I distinctly remembered that they didn’t take the car since the party they were going to was only four houses away. I waited for someone to knock but there was nothing. I waited still, for some kind of noise or voice, but everything went silent. Even my sister now was staring at the door with me, her complaints left unattended for the moment. Then as sudden as the rumble disappeared, a bright probing light enveloped the room. It was so bright and intense, that this might be how it feels to be standing only a few feet away from the sun. I just sat on the floor frozen, trying to expect the unexpected, guessing what will happen next. A silhouette appeared, I couldn’t make-out if it belongs to a man or a woman. I fixed my gaze on that person, but it’s hard to do so. The bright light was giving me a headache and making me disoriented. A high-pitched scream broke my contemplation as I watched in horror, Samantha being carried up, way up that I could not reach her even with my arms outstretched sitting like the dumb fool that I was.

         The scream was coming from her.

         “Michael!” she yelled once again, as she was desperately trying to pull herself away from whoever it is that had taken hold of her.

         I tried to move closer to her but my knees feel like jelly and I couldn’t move. My mind is telling my body to run after her and yank her away from her captor. But it’s like the muscles on my legs suddenly spoke another language and the impulses of my brain to them were nothing but jargon. All I can do was scream back her name.

         “Samantha…” I wanted to say something else, to comfort her and assure her that I will do something to end whatever it is that she is going through. But I couldn’t. My mind was blank, the light was becoming more intense and she just won’t stop screaming.

         “Michael,” she screamed one more time and something registered. I quickly ran to corner of the room, yanked the cabinet open and took my father’s gun. As I was rushing to her side, trying to take aim, I stumbled and fell on the floor together with the gun and its case with a loud thud. I looked up just as she said my name again this time much louder than before, and even with all the light illuminating the room I saw her eyes, the frightened look in her eyes, and the look that speaks of betrayed trust. She trusted in my protection, being there always. But not this time. I screamed her name one more time and my voice seem to echo through the now empty room, the brightness suddenly replaced by darkness. Everything went black, even my clouded mind, but one thing remains - the image my dear sister’s dark brown eyes full of fear, asking me questions I couldn’t answer – forever imprinted on my mind.

         That was what happened, and now everytime I close my eyes, and my sight fills with darkness, the image of the last time that I have seen my sister is what appears before me even with my eyes closed so tight. But that wasn’t the end of it. There were still my parents…

         When I came to there were people in police uniforms, and the room that a few moments ago have been covered in darkness was now brightened by light coming from numerous fixtures placed around the living room. All that I could think of was Samantha. My father will take care of the police, after all he was one of them. And that also made me think that maybe Samantha is already with my mom, all safe and sound. But she wasn’t. I did find my mom, she was on the couch, sitting alone and crying, our next door neighbor trying to comfort her. I can see the grief in her eyes, and how I long to come next to her. She was lost in grief and worrying about my sister. She didn’t even notice that I have regained my consciousness. But my father did, and he stared directly into my eyes. He looked at me like never before. His gaze meant something and I knew what it was. It was of blame. He knew how dear my sister was to my mother and losing her would just break her heart. They trusted me with her and I didn’t protect her. I was her brother, her hero. Why couldn’t I have done something? I’m her older brother, the one she turned to when in need. Why couldn’t I protect her this time, like the countless times I’ve done before, even that time when she fell from a tree and broke her collarbone and we both cried together.

         I feel so ashamed of myself that I couldn’t even raise my head. I tried to avert my eyes, away from my father’s eyes, away from his stares. But his gaze seems to pierce right through me, and it even made me feel even guiltier. You’re useless, he seemed to say.

         “I’m sorry,” I said, barely above a whisper for now I’m also trying to fight back tears that were slowly forming on my eyes.

         But he still stood there, unmoved by my apologies. I can’t hold it any longer and a single tear fell from the corner of my right eye and made its way to my lips. And then another, and then another, until I was bawling like a baby.

         “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I repeated those words again and again. At this time I can taste the salty tears on my lips as I force the words out of my mouth. My mother was now sitting beside me, her arms enveloping me, rocking me back and forth to try to comfort me. She kept telling me that it wasn’t my fault, but I knew the truth, my father knew it too. It was my fault. I could have done something but I didn’t. When they came in the house after the party, they found the door open, and me lying unconscious on the floor, the gun a few inches from me, but no Samantha. My father isn’t stupid, and he’s a cop, I figured he’d find out what had happened sooner or later. The questioning that followed was no help either.

         Because that’s all that there is to it, just questions, millions of them floating in the darkness of my mind. Yet they seem to emerge into my consciousness all at the same time, plaguing me with guilt, unbearable guilt that I have been bearing for the past six years of my life. My sister’s gone, she’s never coming back and it’s my entire fault. Questions remain unanswered forever, like the hard cold stare that never left my father’s eyes.

         I stared directly at those eyes, my eyes stared right back at me. Water was dripping from my chin unto my hands that were clutching the sink, falling to my knuckles white from holding tight in an effort to keep myself upright, as my eyes still remain focused on the mirror in front of me.

         I looked at myself again and into my eyes, eyes that came from my father, eyes that resemble his. Mine have also become cold, hard, and accusing over the years. But there was a difference, so slight one may not see it at first, but only when you have come to know and love the person behind those dark, piercing eyes. There’s a glint of hope, hope that some day all will be forgiven. That’s when the cold becomes warms, and dark turns to light. For after the lonely sun sets, there is always the welcoming sunrise.

         And now I remember what the book said about Hercules:

         A fearful pain seized him, as though he were in a burning fire. But it seemed that he himself could not die. He was in torture but he lived. Men great of soul can bear the blows of heaven and not flinch.

After his many labors he has rest
His choicest price eternal peace
Within the homes of blessedness