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Behind a Façade of Lies

It is a beautiful picture we present to the world. A beautiful portrait of loving father, doting mother, obedient son—in the light, we are perfect, the pinnacle of ‘family’. It is only at night, behind the ancient stone walls of the manor that all façades are stripped away.

And I have written in this notebook for seven years. Seven years of waiting, of watching, of futilely hoping—and I still can’t articulate what I expected of that place, because tradition always dictates everything. I don’t know why I thought I could escape.

My father’s web is perfectly woven. All are caught in it: the President and his merry band of idiots, the mafia and its legions of bloodthirsty fools, the those who can’t fathom—all the world is about to fall before his feet and beg.

Mother and I are the only ones who know. And I doubt anyone would believe me, if they even listened.

I am merely Father’s pawn, no? Just his silver little snake, always doing his bidding, his will. Just a servant bred for one thing—to become the mafia’s consort.

Father doesn’t know I know. Mother swore me to secrecy—my part is not set in stone; another could do in a pinch. Her cerulean eyes were solemn, her mouth a hard line. “Dragan, my little serpent,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around me. “I love you too much to ever let you go.”

It is part of that portrait, most of the things we say. This, I think, was perhaps part of the ploy—but I cannot be sure. And it warmed parts of me that I thought died long ago, killed by my father and his twisted regime.
But you know of that—I’ve penned it in these pages, each of the indiscretions, the indecencies. Each ‘lesson’ taught father to son, one after another after another, for over a decade and a half.

I have never been innocent; that is one of many things I cannot claim. Another is happy, and another enraged.

No, I have never been overtaken with fury, lost control because of anger. I watch him, sometimes, after I’ve said something, done something—the way his face changes. It is an interesting pastime, watching the emotions of the 'savior' dance across his face. And he is so expressive—
What no one knows, I am fairly sure, is that he’s almost a good an actor as me.

Almost. Not quite. His step-parents were bad, I’m certain, but not my Father. No—not him.

He may have been weaned on slaps and punches, maybe even a beating or rape—but our childhoods cannot compare.

So, he is a good actor. But he is not a master. Not like me.
First is shock, every time. No matter how many times I tell him anything, he is always shocked someone dares to speak to him in such a tone.
Then comes something I cannot define—joy? Acceptance? Whatever it is, it enters his eyes and then vanishes so quickly I can never tell.
And after, comes the rage. His entire bearing changes, grows colder. I smirk as I watch him change, watch him shift. They think he is the One, the hero to show the way out of this dark world they’ve—if not created, allowed.

I and I alone know the truth.

He is not the golden hero. He is the herald of the end.

Father has his plans, and, demented and wily they may be, they will not come to pass.

We present such a beautiful portrait, painted perfectly to hide the truth. We are kind, nearly loving—marvelous actors.

And this shall be my last entry.

Dear reader, if you’ve come this far, surely you now know the truth. Tell me, whisper to the air—have my plans flourished?
You’ve read all the rest, yes? From the beginning, as I penned my life, a bitter ten-year-old child, foolish in my own fury—well, I say fury, but truly I was not angry. I was resigned. I could see no way out, no way to escape my destiny as the mafia’s consort—my future as the ******** of a man nearly fifty years my senior.

Well… I am not nearly so naïve anymore.

Dear reader, as you close this book and forget it, as you go about your life—remember. Remember that you know what happened. You saw it played out, in my handwriting; you know exactly why your world is what it is.

Unlike the mafia, unlike the President, unlike Father—my plans did not fail. And, you ask, since I’ve never written of it before, how can I be so sure?

I speak nothing but the truth. Everything else is masked in a façade.

Note: Dragan is a Macedonian name meaning dear or beloved.