Boldizsár Berényi
Translated from the Hungarian by Diana Senechal
The figure stands motionless beside my bed, its breath slow and steady, its chest gently rising and falling with each exhalation. Dark brown, perhaps black eyes stare straight ahead, unblinking. In its hand, a brown cigar burns slowly, the smoke enveloping its form, swirling thick and almost tangible around it.
The features of its face blur into darkness, barely visible in the dim light. Its clothes are worn, as if carrying the dust of centuries. Yet it still emanates an air of elegance with its long overcoat. The sound of its steps is barely audible, almost floating, like the gentle whisper of a soul. Within its shadow resides an inexplicable darkness, swallowing light and clarity.
Words catch in my throat as I glance at it, questions erupting within me, but the figure remains silent. And so do I. It just stands there, quiet, yet I tremble, and I just stare, searching for answers.
Slowly, the devil sheds its black cloak.
And a familiar face emerges, filled with hatred. My father stands before me, coldly gazing, rigid and upright. In his hand, no longer a cigar but a silver pistol gleams. His features are familiar, but now they appear in a different light, aflame with anger. His clothes are dark, as if stained by his own sins, weighed down by responsibility. The sound of his steps thunders like fate-forged armor, yet he doesn’t move.
Within his shadow, darkness still resides, but now it doesn’t conceal; it emanates from him, engulfing everything around.
Words falter, my throat suddenly goes dry, my pupils dilate as I look upon him,
….. Father? Or am I him?
The question swirls within me. I still can’t move. My bed tightens its grip. “Father?” I whisper once more, but my voice is just a quiet wheeze, a motionless breath. The sound of my father’s steps approaches, heavy on the cold floor. The moonlight bounces off the gun’s steel-gray surface, like death’s cold kiss.
Our eyes lock, motionless. Time freezes. Memories of past years whirl within me, but there’s no escape. Silence screams around us as the barrel of the gun points towards my heart. The cold steel rests on my chest.
I just stare at him, helpless, words imprisoning me in my own dark world. Then, in the silence, everything falls. I just wait for his decision, my fate, the ultimate judgment.
The sudden crack of the shot breaks the silence, and a sharp pain sweeps through my body. As if hot fire were my essence, penetrating and poisoning every cell.
Disgust twists his face as he looks into my eyes. For a moment, I can glimpse all his bitterness, disappointment, and pity. But still, there remains a cold aloofness where paternal love should have been, but never was.
Life suddenly starts seeping out of me, each breath growing heavier, each movement more painful. My body remains rigid, but my soul is shattered, lost in the cold shadow of death.
While I still lie among the usually comfortable pillows of my bed, which now seem to shrink in my father’s presence, turning into cold stone, the sharp reality of death presses against my chest. I’m going to die. Life is draining out of me, and I just wait for the eternal darkness to swallow everything I am.
In the last moment, as the final fragment of life fades away, when the last beat of my heart quiets the tiny noises of my body, one last question echoes in my mind: Why? But the answer never arrives, only silence and darkness.
Me and Him.