Chapter Text
A heavy sigh echoed through the room. It’s already been fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of absolute silence from the young man seated on the couch in the middle of the room. The place tried to appear homey and cozy with all the warm colours situated on the walls, on the furniture, even on the carpet. A mix of soft reds and deep browns with the occasional hint of orange. Just the colour scheme made the young man feel utterly disgusted.
In front of him, hidden behind a mahogany desk, was a much older man. His whole look, a sport coat, slacks, neatly trimmed grey beard and a pair of incredibly stupid glasses, told the young man all he needed to know.
The old man took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes in frustration.
„You are not hurting me by staying silent, Melkor. The only one you are hurting is you.“
The young man hasn’t even acknowledged the other man’s existence. His eyes were fixated on the nearby painting hanging off the wall.
Probably the only pretty thing around here… was the thing that crossed his mind. It was a painting of a shore during a sunset. Shades of purple were used on it, depicting a rather gloomy and melancholic atmosphere. The clouds on the top seemed never ending and the same could be said about the ocean. A cliff was there too right beside the beachy shore, tall and menacing, its exposed side sharp and dangerous.
He imagined himself on the top of the cliff, just staring in the distance, breathing the cold air and letting it mess up his hair. It wasn’t just the breathtaking scenery that pulled him in, but rather the absence of anyone else.
The complete loneliness…
And suddenly he was falling.
Falling and hitting every single sharp rock, every single twig, everything that stood in his way.
Landing with a thud that was muffled by the merciless water ,his body remained still. Eyes wide open and empty, his right wrist bent in an unnatural angle, his body now fully belonged to the ocean.
Is that the only purpose I have in life? To give myself, my very flesh, to feed others? To spread throughout the soil?
He found the thought strangely peaceful. If nothing really mattered, if his end is inevitable anyway, then there was nothing worthy of making him anxious and hurt anymore. Does unrequited love mean anything when your body gets digested by a pack of wolves?
The old man stared at him the whole time. Noticing that Melkor’s gaze was fixated on the painting gave him another idea on how to start the conversation.
„It is a nice piece of art,“ he said simply, trying to make it sound like a normal friendly conversation.
„Your father mentioned you are into all sorts of art.“
Your father…
A hint of anger flashed through his eyes. He had no idea what exactly his father said to the shrink beforehand and that fact made him go crazy. He rarely heard an encouraging word from his father, so he doubted the words being said without him present were any better. His eyebrows furrowed, his whole face was caught in a very bitter, convulsive expression. There goes his cold facade…
Nothing that could be said now would make him talk anymore. This assessment, this psychiatric evaluation, was nothing but a waste of time. The more they pressured him, the more they tried, the more he sabotaged it. He hated the idea of being considered faulty, of being weird, of being broken. How dare they even accuse him of something like that? And the IQ tests? Why? To only prove further that he’s insufficient? That he’s not enough? That his brother is his better version?!
His brother…
His brother was waiting in the car outside the psychiatrist’s office. Bags with groceries were sitting on the backseat.
Manwë felt terribly anxious. His brother was acting more and more like a time bomb. Was it his fault? Was he treating him unfairly? He always wanted what was best for his brother. So why is every word he ever says, every action he ever does, ending up twisted around? Taken like an attack? He was accused of being slightly insensitive in the past…
Manwë was a good person. Kind and selfless. He had an unfortunate weakness though that made it particularly hard to talk to Melkor and that was the inability to read the room. His own words were often brutally honest. He never wanted to hurt anyone, he never wanted to humiliate anyone, there was no intention behind this trait, it was just the way he was. Unfortunately, with Melkor people had to sometimes walk on eggshells.
Manwë leaned on the steering wheel with his forehead.
„I hope the dumbass is alright…“
Melkor stood up and left the second the session was over. Not even a goodbye was said, he just fled.
The moment he spotted his brother’s car he adjusted his jacket and jumped inside. He was both relieved to be out the door but also worried about what might follow.
„So… how did it go?“
Manwë’s tone was encouraging and positive, he tried his best to sound friendly.
Melkor looked at him from the side and then sighed.
„I don’t want to talk about it…“
His voice was surprisingly apologetic. He didn’t want to fight. He just wanted peace for the rest of the day.
Manwë knew he shouldn’t pressure him, but he couldn’t just let it go.
„Dad will want to know anyway. You know you don’t have to feel ashamed, right? It’s a perfectly normal thing to-“
„I said I don’t want to talk about it!“ he barked back, immediately making Manwë go silent.
Melkor reached for the radio and turned it on. The station that was on was playing classical music. Both his father and his brother adored it. Chopin, Bach, Smetana, Verdi, Prokofiev and many other already dead corpses of men who once meant something, Melkor immediately changed the station. It wasn’t like he disliked it, far from it. He would love to be able to enjoy Dance of the Knights or The Moldau without feeling like a piece of crap. But how could he?
An amazingly successful father with a son who’s his spitting image, bonding over their love for classy and beautiful things. There was no room for him in this idyllic picture.
An unpleasant thought crossed his mind.
I wonder if mother was as broken as I am…