I’d have liked to remember the "once upon a time" stories I was told.
But I was not so lucky
I only remember the worst.
Of course the prince delivered the princess but we forgot the troll a little too quickly.
What if he had survived ?
And it’s not with a simpleton smile that I fell asleep when I was little.
But fear in the chest.
I even had a theory, simple, naive, childish ... of my age in short.
But aren't children always right?
All these invincible enemies yet defeated,
Would come back for revenge one day.
Abdication is neither the prerogative of the heroes nor the fallen.
And I thought they would start by guzzling,
Like succulent petit-fours,
These children and parents who rejoiced blissfully,
From their defeat(s) and spread it from generation to generation.
AH AH AH AH how stupid I was.
I think about it all as I stroll through the family home. I remember all those little anecdotes, almost forgotten: the laundry room where the washing machine, a little conjurer, made a sock, mischievously, disappear each time.
Maliciously ? Really ?
The living room, a real playground: the grand prix of the coffee table or the great battle of the sofa which, however, also served as a secret hut if I pushed it a little back against the wall. Besides, my toys were also disappearing.
Coincidence ? I do not think so.
Night falls slowly, day is dying over the house of my childhood.
Even the sun betrays.
The staircase creaks a lot more with the years, unless they have only affected me more than it. Drawings, portraits and photos were hung all along the climb.
Whose gazes are felt without the eyes following.
The door of my room, decorated, like all the doors of all the teenage rooms, with prohibition signs and messages defying the intruder to enter this sanctuary. Facing the bedroom of my parents who came running at the slightest of my night calls, always there for my anxieties. Affectionate, patient, loving.
Haughty, condescending, contemptuous.
My room hasn't changed either, how and why would it have? The closet and the bed, my movie and sports posters lining the walls, the closet and the bed, my desk less used than what my parents would have wanted and the closet and the bed where the avenging troll of the tales alternately hid . Unless there were two. Night fears, morning fears. Only my parents dared to look to reassure me. They were good, patient, but fair. Scolded me for lying or doing something stupid.
Laughed at the smallest awkwardness, seeing everything, hearing everything. As if something or someone was telling them everything.
What if ?
What if I dared ?
What if I finally dared ?
Open this closet, look under this bed after dark.
To verify at the age of 30 that my fears were, as my father repeated to me, unfounded.
Go on ! Show some courage, banish your fears.
Paranoia you are my only companion.
Paranoia is a sweet unreason,
Which can lead to irrationality.
Loneliness, feeling of persecution
Are the lesser of the effects.
Successfully fight your phobia when you are convinced that you are right
Is, obviously, a nice proof of courage or idiocy in this case.
Because you see, this sweet thirty-something should have continued
Listening to the child who never stopped whispering
It would have saved him from discovering that even paranoid people can be right.
And so refrain from being lying in a pool of his own blood
Crunched, guzzled, "lightly"
One question though
What bed, what closet will I haunt from now on?