My father has made an art form out of inscrutability; emotions, his or mine, have represented an inconvenient ripple on the mirrored surface of our peaceful co-existence.
Over the years I’ve learned to sublimate my feelings, maintaining a cool interchange of political or literary opinion whilst engaging with him in detached observations on the human condition.
It’s worked for us both…perfectly.
But now, through the long nights, we sit together, he and I … and the elephant in the room.
“I’m afraid,” he mutters.
“Fear is only as deep as the mind allows,” I observe.
See how perfectly I’ve become him.
Friday Fictioneers kicks off with a new prompt this week, and Rochelle is firmly back in control and probably already kicking ass. 🙂 My attempt at ‘humour’ last week seemed to fall largely on stony ground, and it’s too soon to go back to ‘dark’ … so now for something a bit… well, worrying.