The Sins Of The Father

“Thanks for that, Joffrey. We at the network truly appreciate your time,” he said without nuance and pukable normalcy. His typical choice in tie was a daunting distraction. That fucking hairdo was nothing less of hilarious, although I feel that that was understandable–knowing it stemmed from jealousy. The way an eagle covets the shade of a large Oak tree, despite its immobility.

“My pleasure,” I replied succinctly.

 

You can see my father in the interview become…umm…uncomfortable. He seems calm, doesn’t he? In his winter-green sweater with his legs crossed, quietly clutching his knee, distantly sullen. My uniform matched that ridiculous sweater–the producers told him to wear that color, so that the viewers at home could see me as a very human extension of him, to see that I also, like you and everybody else, has a father. I could feel him breathing, his exhales calculated and baboonish. The interviewer asked us if we ever discussed the murders and my cannibalism, my bean pushing, you know, the whole lot. I replied that we did not since it was all covered in the media anyway. The truth is, my father never brought it up because he, also like myself, was guilty; he was a monster just like me in his own way. But we sat there, together as I gave this clown and his camera, what they wanted; the gladiator, the cannibal, the quiet cretan, the strange lover, the cunning killer, the hellish homo,the son now repentant of his salacious stories. I was angry, and fucking angry, for my father had done things nobody knew about, but me. He knew I knew, on some level. We would sit together in agreement, locked in our moments for the sake of betraying some kind of etiquette, and avoiding confrontation. After all, he was my father. I gave them all that muck about Jesus Christ and how he created the world–what kind of moron believes this nonsense, anyway? My father was a sinner because he believed in a world where things you want and shouldn’t have, are sinful; I am a “sinner” because it keeps me from receiving an unholy ass beating in here in the joint, and extra desserts from time to time.

 

I will never tell of the reasons I was angry, I will not confess its origins; I have caused enough damage. In my path, I made conquerors my victims, and victims my conquerors.

 

I still wonder, to this day, what the phrase “the sins of the father” really means.

∞