We all have our limitations.
thank god i know mine
askanthea said: Wise choice.
i know what i’m not
Augustus wasn’t a bad father; even Sebastian had to admit that. He was simply a demanding one. A perfectionist and a nationalist. There wasn’t much room for anyone else in the family but Augustus Moran.
And then all of that disappeared.
And that scared Sebastian.
It still scares Sebastian.
It may be the only thing that scares him, the silence he held in his mouth, the depth of the void where his father used to be.
Augustus, in an ironic manner, had become less of a man as he got older, his self sloughing off like dead skin. He became a husk, each year a new molt making him lose more of his mind. It slipped slowly out of grasp, his memories faded like dust.
Sebastian knew that his father’s Alzheimers was serious when Augustus inquired after the state of the Argentinians in the Falklands -fuckingpisserpiecesofshite - those men and women - he spat - out there fighting for what? For a spits at the papist cocksuckers with shit to show for it.
Sebastian didn’t bother telling him the date.
And the next time (the last time) - Augustus had looked through Sebastian and seen nothing. Recognized nothing. His eyes were still grey and hard as flint and his knuckles clenched white. The fuck are you?
Sebastian didn’t bother telling him.
And that, right there, that inability to recall anything put some disassociated shadow of spite and anger towards his oldest son. That scared Sebastian. His father, who had hit him half a dozen times, who had threatened to disown him, who had demanded that he be something that wasn’t entirely healthy, had never scared him before.
Then, one rainy afternoon in a convalescent center in Scotland, Augustus Moran finally managed to make an impact on Sebastian. He was never the same, his hands were different, his eyes harder, his decisions surer, full of the idea that if he kept himself scared, if he kept himself on the edge, that would be the only thing he would need, that now-ness, that immediacy of thought and action that split second reaction would propel him forwards to the next second, and the next, and the next and he would never want the past at all. It would always be the vast, unending future in front of him, instead of the abyss of the past which he forgot as soon as he saw it leave his fingers.
That way, Sebastian reasoned, his past would be worthless. (So it wouldn’t matter) just like his father.