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As much as I hate to admit it, looking at Albert was like staring at a looking glass.
Young and brilliant he was, Albert was also haunted by the ghost of a stranger.
It was no secret as to the reasons of Albert's existence. A stand in. A replacement. A fill in for a man with far-too-big shoes to fill. Sure, Albert looked strikingly like him, they were both brilliant, yes. And the two of them were quirky. That part was obvious glaringly. But the way they treated the boy?
It.
Was.
Like.
Albert.
Himself.
Never.
Existed.
Replaced.
By.
The.
Man.
He.
Was.
Supposed.
To.
Be.
They never viewed Albert as Albert, no. They never saw him like that. He was always an object, never a boy. And frankly, I hate and am hurt by it.
I saw it in their eyes.
I saw the way Marie looked at Albert. The way her eyes contained the haunting of the melancholy notion that if she tried hard enough, looked hard enough, fooled herself enough, the boy would transform into her late friend.
I saw the way Nikola talked about Albert. The way his words were laced with bitterness poorly hid and the idea that he would never live up to the person in whose image he was made.
I saw the way Sigmund talked to Albert. The way his voice had the ghosting of the false hope that if he just closed his eyes, for just a little moment, he could forget that he was talking to a child, not the memory of his late friend.
And there was Winston.
Fucking Winston.
I saw the way he treated Albert.
Dismissive.
Objectifying.
Like Albert himself was never there as a person in his own right.
With the undercurrents of exploitation.
Albert.
Was.
Nothing.
More.
Than.
A.
Weapon.
To.
Him.
Perhaps, that was why I feel so protective of Albert now.
He reminded me, poignantly, far, far too much, of myself.
I know too well how everyone views me, and how they treat me different under the influence of the fumes. The way they only adore the idealistic version of me.
The attractive version.
The perfect version.
The non existent version.
I'm not foolish. I've lived for long enough, I've seen it all unsaid in their eyes. The barely disguised lust, the Janus-esque love, if one could even call it that, under the influence of the fumes. The empty praises and adorations that spilt from their lips. The way they seem to forget that this was all a farce. The thinly hidden disgust in their eyes when they see me. The real me. It was embitteringly hollow.
I desperately want, more than anything, to be truly seen and loved for who I am. Not under the influence of the fumes. The real me, the one that yearned for love that accepts. And this impossibly perfect and idealistic version of me was thrusted upon me. It was a weight unwanted on my consciousness.
And am I projecting my issues onto Albert, making me just as culpable as the others?
Maybe.
But I want to think, for just one moment, he was being suffocated by the ghost of a man unmet.
He was like me.
Deeply desiring to be loved for the real self, not what one is supposed to be.
Humans were supposed to have life.
But do we still have life when reduced to idea of one?