Happiness is a Lie

Durand, listlessly watching the pink stubs of his toes at the opposite end of the bathtub, absently wiggled the appendages. He’d been hiding in the soothing warmth of the water for the better part of an hour, and they were nice and wrinkly—like little shriveled prunes, they were. He hated prunes, though Uncle loved them; he frequently ate them after supper. Uncle would probably be wondering why he’d been in here so long, Durand thought with a slight amount of trepidation, but couldn’t dredge up a shiver.
With a soft sigh, he sat up in the tub and pulled the plug. He stood up, but instead of immediately stepping out he simply watched as the water drained, eventually forming a mini whirlpool that he could easily imagine representing his life. It too, like the water, had gone down the drain. He tried to feel the resentment that had once coursed through him when he thought of his father, the anger and hate that he’d happily directed towards the heartless man who had left him and his mother when he was six years old, but it was impossible to feel emotion of that magnitude anymore. It was easier to feel empty, easier to be hollow.
He then thought of his mother, pictured her lovely, shadowed face in his mind, and he believed he might have felt a faint stirring in his chest. Was that a quickening of his heart? Durand’s breath caught in his throat, but before he could identify the thing that affected him so it was gone, disappearing as if it never was.
Tears pricked the back of his eyes, but he dashed them away before they could fall. He should hurry. Uncle was waiting, and he always hated it when Durand dawdled. Trying not to think of his mother, now one year dead, he stepped out of the bathtub and dried off. After quickly dressing in a clean pair of boxer shorts and a white tank top, his usual nightly attire, he moved over to the sink to brush his teeth, staring blankly at the flowery wallpaper in front of him. There were no mirrors in the bathroom. In fact, Durand had never seen a mirror anywhere in Uncle’s house; but it was something that had long ceased to puzzle him. He simply accepted it and kept his hair short.
Durand brushed his teeth mechanically, his movements smooth but without grace. He soon finished, and after rinsing off his toothbrush he took the bottle of mouthwash and swished some around in his mouth. He had eaten spaghetti and garlic bread tonight for supper, and Uncle disliked the scent of garlic. If he didn’t rid his mouth of the lingering taste, then Uncle would complain and possibly punish him. That was to be avoided at all costs.
Finished with his nightly ministrations, Durand picked up his dirty clothes and tossed them into the hamper before leaving the bathroom, turning the light off behind him. He walked down the short hallway to the living room, and there his uncle was waiting, as he’d known he would be. Uncle looked up from the book he was reading as he entered, and after eyeing him critically for a moment set it aside, cover down, and rose to his feet.
“What took you so long? You’ve been in there forever.” Uncle was a tall, attractive man. His face was handsome and framed by a fall of thick, curly black hair, and he worked out three times a week at the local gym to stay in shape. His eyes were dark, nearly black, and they gleamed with wolfish intensity as they studied Durand. They were so different from the eyes of his sister, Durand’s mother. His mother’s eyes had been a clear, pale blue, and she had passed this legacy on to her son.
“The water felt good,” Durand murmured, lowering his gaze to the floor. Uncle was silent, then burst into hearty laughter.
“Like taking long soaks, do you? Perhaps I should buy you some of that scented bath stuff women are so crazy about. Might as well enjoy it to the fullest, eh?” Durand just shrugged. His uncle studied him for a moment longer, his eyes slightly narrowed, then stepped forward and curved one hand over his shoulder, squeezing. “It’s getting time for bed, isn’t it? Have you finished your homework?”
“Yes.”
“Good boy. You know, you’re getting taller, aren’t you? I’ll have to take you clothes shopping again before too long.” He chuckled softly, menacingly. “Actually, you’re starting to look remarkably like me, you know that?”
Durand knew. When he’d been little, he’d heard over and over again how much he looked like his mother. Now that he was older and his features changing to take the shape they would assume for manhood, he was constantly being told, in a tone of amazement, how he was beginning to look like his uncle.
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Not so bad is it? I had all the girls coming after me at your age, and I wouldn’t doubt it if they do the same to you.” He paused. “Well then, time to go to bed. Off with you.” Obediently turning around and walking down the same hallway, Durand couldn’t shake the knowledge that Uncle was watching him, his eyes boring into him from behind. He opened the door to the bedroom and stepped inside, glancing around before heading over to the bed.
His bedroom was nothing to boast about. He’d added a few posters on the walls, picked out the sheets and comforter, and of course there was the usual mess on the floor that most boys had in their rooms, but for the most part it was rather spartan. The walls were a faded white, and over the bed was the faded outline of a cross. The cross itself was long gone.
Folding back the covers, Durand climbed into the queen size bed and stretched out, lying on his back and folding his hands over his stomach. He stared up at the ceiling, and as his body relaxed his mind awakened. The thoughts he’d had in the bathroom concerning his mother returned, only much more vividly, and in the darkness he peered at her, as he could not do in the light.
His mother had been a sweet woman, gentle and caring, and loved by all. Even before his father had left them Durand had been utterly devoted to her. He’d been her precious little boy, and she had been his goddess. She could do no wrong. Then she’d become sick.
Durand had been forced to stand by and watch, unable to do anything, as his beloved mother died slowly before his eyes, killed by a disease that the doctors had fought in vain. All they had done was prolong her suffering. He had cried for weeks, and his grandmother, who had been caring for him at the time, had tried to console him without success. It was only after he had been sent to his uncle to live had the grief begun to abate.
The more Durand thought about his mother, the more ashamed he became; but it was impossible to turn his thoughts off, and he continued to stare into the darkness, thankful for this one curtain, at least. He lay awake for a long time. The numbers on his digital clock slowly counted off the minutes, then the hours. He waited, silent, thinking.
Happiness was a lie. There might be a brief, shining time of light, but darkness was always waiting just around the corner, ready to swallow a person up and suck them dry. Hurt followed hurt, disappointment after disappointment, and all one was allowed to do was keep trudging on to the end when the final darkness settled in. Until then, it was one hell after another, with no choice but to endure it.
A soft footstep outside the door caught Durand’s attention, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat. His body tensed and his mind shut down, but he continued to stare into the darkness, his gaze never wavering. The door slowly opened, and the soft light from the hallway silhouetted the figure in the doorway, making the shadow spill across the bed and onto the wall, but no one entered.
“Durand?” a soft, chilling voice called.
“Come in, Uncle,” he invited, and the tall, dark figure stepped across the threshold, melting into the darkness as the door shut behind him and all light was extinguished.