‘You can’t adopt a chair!’ Mother smashed her office files against the coffee table.
‘That’s it! You aren’t my son!’ Father announced, shuffling the newspaper.
‘You literate fool!’ Cursed his grandmother from the portrait on the wall. He could feel it.
It all started when Paul, the egg-face, had walked over to his psychic. The meeting went good with Paul claiming that he had seen pigeons making love under his bed and the psychic assuring him that it’s all normal when you close your eyes. On his way back to home, Paul met with an accident that had severely neutralised his eccentricities. He woke up in bed, one day, in a hospital and claimed that he has seen the abyss. Mother and father wanted to give up but told him to keep working on his aptitude. Paul did and had been doing it.
His internal monologues kept him busy most of the time. He never uttered a word to someone until he was sure what he staring at was indeed a gun, pointed at his temple. Then, he cried his lungs out putting the collective capabilities of his monologues to shame. The robbery, at his home, smashed his confidence. Everything went for a trip and came back to him in black and white. He couldn’t differentiate between good and bad just like any normal man finds it difficult to guess the seriousness of a bad joke.
The robbery was a very importance piece to Paul’s puzzle. Because, it had taken away the one connection to sanity. The psychic was nowhere to be found. The room where most of their conversations had taken place was rented out to someone else. One thing robbery did right was in setting him against the path of insanity. As far as he was concerned, everything before the robbery had been a huge event blurred by its mere presence.
Later, he moved with his parents. For them, it wasn’t an obligation to take care of him but they acted like it was an obligation to love him. ‘It will set him right,’ father told mother one day before adding X to her XX. Mother and Father took care of him. They never allowed him to go out alone. They heard his monologues which weren’t internal anymore. They were mostly about pigeons and pigs, their kingdoms, their servants and betrayals. They usually sounded like as if the narrator was as sane as they usually came. Father transcribed them into a book while mother designed the cover page. It was published in greek and later was translated to grunts and squeaks.
Father and mother learned to love him without expecting anything in return. It all worked for sometime but then Paul learned to return it. You see, the blur doesn’t stay. One day, he threw the coffee tray up in the air and recorded the fall with a camera. ‘Why’d you do that?’
‘Because, everything falls.’
Mother slapped him so hard, father had to intervene.