Who is incapable of imagining these turbulent emotions as they shuffle my thoughts to a disorderly commotion? Who cannot own that the sheer insanity of those heartless words creates a cold slinking shiver through his veins? Who is compelled to deny that each phrase, so carefully wound by a coldly composed calm that appears at crucial moments in the mind of a madman, was an icicle of deceit with its tip carefully stroked to a point that could draw blood?
Excuse my imaginings. My feelings run away with me. But the imaginings are not imaginings, and the feelings are not feelings. My imaginings are true and real. The words create a tumult of confusion, a creeping of flesh, a shiver of the icy chill wrought by the knowledge of callousness where the impression that has been manufactured to imply sensitivity. But they are not real. They are not imaginings, but they are not feelings. These words have been called forth by a calm handling of words to produce an effect. A cold management, where there is no true emotion, and every turn of eloquence contributes to the murdering of the spirit's self.
See what I do? Every word is false and fake. It is an illusion, there to conjure an ivory state of mind, and give the impression of the truth. But really, if you see behind the magnificence of the fur cloak, and see the animal hide beneath, you see the fur as cold, and false tears called forth by 'beauty' transform into tears of candid empathy for this dead mammal who has been killed for the sake of his fur, that it might make an instrument of warmth. Never shall that cloak keep an emotive man warm.
Now I fear I am becoming morbid. Believe the words, despite their falsity, for they have a power over you, if you believe them, that may indeed cause the sincere tears to fall, and the bright mirth to bubble. You will be called heartless if you do not cry at the sorrowful words, or laugh at the humorous ones, for they hold a power over each of us. Break that power, and you are selfish for your dignity, which denies the life-enhancing feelings, and unkind to your spirit, which craves the heartbeat of emotion. Do you wish to be cold? Then let the words speak to the depths of your soul, and be glad that they may.
My mother was cold. No word or gesture, in her insanity of late years, could reach out beyond her intellect. Each interaction and beckoning, floating around just waiting to exert its talent for influence, is ground to a grey pulp by the thinking, knowing science of the human brain, and there is nothing remaining to caress the soul. That was the way with my mother, and that is the reasoning behind her writings over the white paper, her letter of leaving to her family, her closest relations.
We obviously weren't so close. Hateful letter. I burnt it, there and then, with the help of the yellow and black lighter lying beside a squashed packet of cigarettes on the fraying rug. Hateful letter.
Dad notified the police, and trackers and detectives were ordered all over the towns and neighbouring villages, to search for my mother, a woman with neglected obligations and no money, driven mad by her grief at the death of her daughter years ago, driven to leaving by the idiocy of her son.
Over these long days of a dim Summer and blurred vision, I sat at home, bored and brooding, yet trying not to think of the despicable words of that letter of Mum's, trying not to think of Vere's body and blood on the boards, trying not to think of Deanna Macpherson's kiss.
I had lost my sister to the blade, and I had lost my mother to the madness. How short a time would it be before I lost my father to the exhaustion. Or was I lost too, to the depression and the revenge?