A fictive situation based on a true story:

His perspective:

I am drunk, but I can never be satisfied. The dozen of empty beer bottles standing on the old oak wooden kitchen table fill the space so much there is barely any space left. Among the empty brown-tinted bottles of beer gather wine and harder stuff bottles. But that is okay, I have lived with this for almost 60 years now and I did never had any problems with this. So I would not call it a drinking problem. My body is used to it. Plus I have a good physiology, towering over 1,90 Meter and weighing above 150 kg my body takes a lot to get drunk or show signs. Also, I metabolise this faster due to my mass. But surely it is not the alcohol that increased my body weight, it is my love for foods of all kind, as long as it is local cuisine, that is.

Behind the wall of bottles I assume the little boy sitting still in his place. It is way past his bed time, but I need someone to bring me another case of beer for the next hour of drinking. My wife, his mother sitting next to me, barely conscious, tired and overly drunk, she stopped talking 20 minutes ago and fell asleep occasionally having hiccups from the mixture of wine and beer.

I belt to the boy he should bring me another case of the beer from the dark food pantry across the hall. He looks sheepishly and anxious. But surely that is just because the room is dark and he has to do it all on his own. But how should he ever become a man, a real tough man, if he can’t handle the dark and obey commands? How could he ever become a respectful leader of a household if he isn’t more like me? He is lazy and dumb, sometimes idiotic and hyperactive. He is weeping a lot, just like his siblings. They all are weak, they all are lazy. The only one ever doing something in this house is me, am I not?

The boy says he is too afraid to do it all by himself. My eyes gleam with anger. I growl demanding him to do it and when he repeatedly says he is too afraid I count up the numbers one to three and raise my arm with an extended hand. God I wanna smack that boy. How dare he disrespect me? How dare he question my decisions? Alas, it is my money that brings him food to the table. He hunchingly runs out of the kitchen tilting his little head to watch out wether I will follow him into the dark.

It is taking him so long to bring me another case and I am feeling my throat dry out and my level of alcohol slowly decreasing, which makes me super angry. There is feelings I am trying to hide, feelings I want to lock up. Stress from work that I have no other way of diminishing. I hear his little voice panting as he tries to carry the case and then a sudden banging noise and shattering glass. God I wanna kill that kid. That was my last beer. Enough of this wimp, enough of this disobedience and weakness. I wait until he slowly comes into the kitchen stuttering an apology and looking for a broom to clean up the mess. I let him come inside. I close the lacquered sliding door shut and cut of any escape route. Then I slowly start approaching him. His knowing eyes searching for a way to escape this room. My wife still asleep, merely woken for seconds when the case fell to the ground. “You are worth noting” I yell at him, “You are not even half the person that we are. We are academics and you have to obey us. You are a constant failure and you will never ever be anything else.” My hands are shaking as my anger takes the better of me. Everything is red. My hand on his face and his tiny back. Slapping his ass, His tears flowing and his tiny whimpering noises escaping under the hand I put onto his mouth to diminish the squelching screaming.

I can’t tell for how long I lost control. But then I stop and he weepingly leaves the room. What a useless child. My wife looking me straight into my eyes but saying nothing. It is her kid, not mine.

This is unacceptable! The finely woven silk on my dress soaked in a puddle of human excrements and the silk of my white gloves deeply bruised and dirty from the earthly soil beneath me. The straw on which I am seated stinging my skin. Never have I ever felt something so uncomfortable in my life.

The cold and damp air filled with a foulish odour, something that only the peasants in the past, waiting to be tortured would smelling. But this is the 21st century and I thought that we were further than that. Hast human evolution and social changes make a halt before reaching our elaborated circle of royalty. Does the centuries of inbreeding and classes change our blood to that of cave men. Otherwise I could not explain what would justify this ongoing oppression of people and confining them to cells like this. I have seen documentaries about prison cells in America that were more inviting than this right here.

There is barely any light coming in. Emanating from a small candle in front of my cell door and the light flowing in underneath the old wooden door that has seen so many people suffer. There is scratch marks on the inside, but surely none on the outside. This is a one way street. The iron bolts and holding it firmly in the unbreakable stone walls. The shackles on the wall telling about the gruelsome past of this place and the dimly light from the candle flickering, making this the scene from a horror movie.

If my mother was only strong enough to make him see that his actions are so wrong. This is not only old-school upbringing, this was inhumane and forbidden by the human rights conventions, I guess. But ever since this bastard moved in with us after beguiling my mother, ever since he coerced her to become his wife, he thinks he is above the law, above all conventions, above the simple nature of humanity. This is what people fought for. Rising up against the oppression from royalties. And I understand them. I always understood and had different believes to what he said. I was taught that by my father, a loving person with a keen eye for details, interconnected social systems and a just king. But he was diagnosed with terminal leukaemia about five years ago. Back when I was about to finish school and when I needed him most. My mother was devastated and could not bear the pain of losing him. So her mum arranged a marriage with a prince from a far-away country to bring together families and realms. How outdated that practice is. I guess gramps never really understood the newfangled thing called love, and that the time of intermarriage of kingdoms was a practice of the past. Just like it was okay for biological men to identify as something else and wear clothes that her generation would associate with female gowns. But we stopped discussing the matter years ago and she just ignores me, giving me disapproving glances here and there. But she is no longer queen, and therefore the only one I had to justify my behaviour to was myself and I also felt obliged to explain my decision to my mother. And of course HIM. Which eventually lead me here I guess. Cause he wanted me to become a dirty secret and something no one would see, so I would not bring shame on his house. At least for as long until I would come to my senses and become a real man.

I grab my wrist and feel the pain come right back into my mind. His hand on it, squeezing it tightly, nearly breaking my fragile bones beneath it. Even in this dimly lit place I can see a blue-reddish discolouration from the coagulated blood beneath my skin. Even thinking of this pain makes the tears come flowing. How much longer do I have to wait for him to come to the point that I had learned my lesson? Suddenly I feel the most human urge but there is no restroom anywhere to be seen and he must have forgotten to think of any place to relieve myself.

Suddenly I think that the puddle of human excretion beneath me might have been the only place the captives had back in the day. But I can’t do that. That is too gross. Too un-royal. Right? Trying to hold it for as long as I can I start to recite song lyrics, I know one would think I’d know any good poems but my brain is just wired differently and I know all the lyrics to every Cher song ever released. If she could endure the hatred from cis-men, surely I can hold it in for longer.

While chasing your ghost, I became one myself I just couldn’t let go and it put me through hell A hole where my heart was, a pain in my chest And no medication that could put me to rest

While I was sorting the boxes, I fell to the floor Wishing you would come walk through that door The picture frames and the smell on your shirt A disturbing amplification of me feeling hurt

While I was sorting the mail, I found a letter for you Saying your credit cards balance was due The bold red ink letters are blurred from my tears Small thing like this reminding, you’re no longer here

While I was sorting my thoughts, I stumbled upon Some bittersweet memories and since you’ve been gone Tried to make peace, thought writing would help While chasing your ghost, I became one myself

There is a smell of candles emanating from the kitchen window. I can hear giggling noises and chatter as I exit the car, then sudden silence. I knew this was coming. I had secretly hoped for this for years. A picture-perfect sit-com moment out of the books of 90's nostalgia. But now that it is here I don't really want it.

Why now? Why you? Is this some sick way to apologise for you hitting me last week? Or is it just to look cool in front of our shared friends, who I know would be on your side if we ever broke up? Just so they can say they knew I was not the one and you would deserve better. But none of them knows of your dark side. They don’t know what happens behind closed doors every time you come home from the bar.

I unlock the front door and toss the bunch of keys into the large wooden bowl on the countertop. The moist air inside the entrance hallway is laced with traces of cinnamon and chocolate. God I hate cinnamon and you should know that by now. But you rarely listen anyway.

The candle incenses and fizzing drinks numbingly audible. The dog not coming to greet me. Obvious signs. But I don't want this, not here, not with you. So I pick up the keys gain, grab my passport and close the door quietly behind me. Closing the door on you and a life which made me feel used to putting on a mask to hide my feelings.

If wishes fell like rain, Then certainly I am a storm If hope would grow on trains Then I would be the tracks

If love would be a game Then certainly I am a gambler If wisdom flows like water Then I would learn to swim

If time was floating backwards A traveler I would be If mistakes were made from honey I certainly would be a bee

If luck was more than guessing I’d be an expert in my field If failing was no option I’d have more self-esteem

If fire wasn’t scarring I’d cuddle close to flames If ice was golden nuggets I would save the arctic planes

If life was scripted TV I wouldn’t take the role If fame would be a constant I’d go and dig a hole

Some spilled ink on faded sheets Some illegible names is all that is No ghost is lingering inside this house Telling tales from times of happiness

No photographs inside a frame I'm sure you're struggling with my name You show no feeling of regret What would you do if we'd ever met?

It might be easier for you To act as though you never knew Is there a way to bridge this crater? Until you find it - Dad on paper