Felix
Camera crews fill the lawn, setting up equipment and lights that reach into the sky. The clamor of Father’s supporters can be heard from within the mansion, where all of his aides rush about, getting everything ready.
The navy blue Armani suit feels like sandpaper against my skin, which has been crawling for weeks now, and I’ve scratched myself raw.
Father looked at my arms last night and examined the scratches.
“I’m just itchy. Probably from the meds,” was all Icould say.
He didn’t say anything. He simply nodded and carried on practicing his speech—a one-hour diatribe about the perils of man in an age rife with sin and lawlessness.
I’ve heard the speech roughly three hundred times in the last four days, and each time, I find something new to hate about it.
I can’t sit. Everything feels awful on my flesh, and my body won’t rest. It’s like I’m jumping out of my skin, trying to walk off the gnawing feeling that something foreign pumps through my bloodstream.
My eyes scan the room. Each one of Father’s aides looks like they wish I weren’t here. Every so often, my body will just convulse, a massive twitch that startles everyone around me.
They stare at me with cruel eyes and expressions of disgust.
My feet pace about the room. All I want to do is rest, but my body won’t do it. It can’t.
The nighttime is torture. I shake my foot beneath my covers, hoping I’ll tire myself out, but I never do. My dreams are insane, and I sweat profusely now.
I probably smell like shit.
It’s been a couple of weeks, and these damn pills just won’t settle into my system. Nothing feels better. Every sad thought I’ve ever had is magnified by ten thousand, making me want to scream and beat my head in to stop the thoughts that never cease.
I won’t be like my mom.
But the thought is there.
Quiet.
Persistent.
Like it’s waiting for me to catch up.
Robert, my father’s chief of staff, approaches, and I jump.
“Sorry,” he says, annoyed and flustered. Nobody on my father’s staff likes me, but Robert is the most annoyed by me. He’s an asshole and genuinely admires my father, which I findastonishing. “The Mayor is about to make his entrance. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I reply with about as much life as a cadaver.
He scurries away, and my father descends the staircase, looking zoftig and imposing. I can see him reciting the lines of his speech, his mouth moving as he looks skyward, trying to remember each line perfectly. I hate my father a lot, but he knows how to razzle-dazzle a crowd. He doesn’t inspire; he plays into people’s rage, riling them up. He appeals to the worst in us, and I guess that’s all you need to achieve in politics these days.
I can count the number of policies he’s ever mentioned during a speech on one hand, but if I took a shot every time he said the words “lowlifes” or “liberal scum” during just one speech, I’d die of alcohol poisoning.
He looks at me and nods, a slight curl to his lip that makes my stomach queasy. I’m following orders, and he loves nothing more than when I’m compliant.
His aides ask if he’s ready, to which he responds by puffing out his chest and giving a single thumbs up. The door is opened, and we exit the house to applause.
My hand raises without me even realizing it. It’s like a remote control is operating my movements. I wave to the crowd standing next to my father, who pumps his fists in the air. The crowd erupts and mirrors his movement.
He basks in the glory of it all for too long to feel natural, then urges the crowd to settle and begins his speech. I take my place at his side, visible but not distracting, and breathe a sigh of relief.
All I have to do is stand here and not look visibly ill by everything he’s saying, and I can do that. I don’tlikedoing it,but I can.
Because I just don’t care anymore.
