[ 'friends' kaveh had said, as if one could distill it down to such, two young men squeezed into an akademiya-standard cot meant for one, heads bowed together so closely that a hit to the back of one would resound in the head of the other, debating the principles of liyuen metallurgy and the etymology of ancient enkanomiyan verbs long into the night. of tearing through the vahumana conferences not because they were invited but because they invited themselves, arguing through the corresponding periods of literature and the guest speaker's interpretation of the cultural nuances of it until they were thrown out and banned from future attendance. of heads tipped together in blatant procrastination as they looked to self-determination on the rooftop beneath the stars, not in the astrology of the rtawahists, but in each other, in themselves, in the reflection of themselves.
friends, if the mere act of not being one meant the loss of your limb, or half of your heart. but this, kaveh doesn't say, because daan knew that pain in a literal way, and it also didn't seem important to clarify. it was what it was, and it was what it no longer is.
instead: ]
Oh, no. [ kaveh says, and the look he gives his hand and his pencil is a haunted one. he breathes in. ] No, not that. Perhaps in a way. But the crux of the matter is this - I killed my father, Daan.
[ kaveh bears his teeth. there is nothing in it that resembles a smile. daan's expression softens, and kaveh thinks - i will disappoint him. i will. ]
I resent this city. I loath it to the bottom of my being. This isn't the first time I've told this story, but perhaps I stand in defiance of this city by making this the first time I've chosen to tell it. As a child, I killed my father. My mother was never the same after. She was an architect, just like I am - she was never again able to draw, never again able to hold a pen without trembling. She left when I was young for another country; she is much happier now. I've carried that with me and willingly because it is my burden to bear. My fault, and my atonement.
Didn't I say so to you, Daan? That I'm not a good man, or a kind man. I'm not even a decent man. That is what is unbelievable to me. That Alhaitham would know this, would know all of this, and say what he did. Because it's me. As if he didn't know that I knew what he knew - that I knew what he said all those years ago. The answer he gave wasn't just not enough, it was a deflection, through and through.
no subject
friends, if the mere act of not being one meant the loss of your limb, or half of your heart. but this, kaveh doesn't say, because daan knew that pain in a literal way, and it also didn't seem important to clarify. it was what it was, and it was what it no longer is.
instead: ]
Oh, no. [ kaveh says, and the look he gives his hand and his pencil is a haunted one. he breathes in. ] No, not that. Perhaps in a way. But the crux of the matter is this - I killed my father, Daan.
[ kaveh bears his teeth. there is nothing in it that resembles a smile. daan's expression softens, and kaveh thinks - i will disappoint him. i will. ]
I resent this city. I loath it to the bottom of my being. This isn't the first time I've told this story, but perhaps I stand in defiance of this city by making this the first time I've chosen to tell it. As a child, I killed my father. My mother was never the same after. She was an architect, just like I am - she was never again able to draw, never again able to hold a pen without trembling. She left when I was young for another country; she is much happier now. I've carried that with me and willingly because it is my burden to bear. My fault, and my atonement.
Didn't I say so to you, Daan? That I'm not a good man, or a kind man. I'm not even a decent man. That is what is unbelievable to me. That Alhaitham would know this, would know all of this, and say what he did. Because it's me. As if he didn't know that I knew what he knew - that I knew what he said all those years ago. The answer he gave wasn't just not enough, it was a deflection, through and through.
I can't forgive that.