The Silent Many

The following text does contain minor examples of abuse and may be slightly confronting for those struggling with depression. Reader discretion is hence advised. In regards to the story itself, I have written it in a three-act nonlinear narrative format, which makes use of a flashback in the middle segment. It targets adolescent males who are suffering mentally from being forced to conform with social stereotypes, and is purposed with encouraging such individuals to be themselves.

The loneliness. It was a familiar feeling that met me as I laid in the cave which had become my escape and weapon in the war against emotion. The musty air was saturated with the stench of sweat, the darkness palpable, as I reflected upon what had transpired. ‘A blight’, he’d called me, ‘nothing but a trepid, emotional coward’. Regardless of where I turned, society seemed to leer at me for my social short comings. It was a disparaging sensation, amplified only by the ruthless condemnation of those who should love me most. And yet, despite attempting to combat my flaws, it seemed like I had been cursed to forever fail the expectations of everyone who surrounded me.

You see, my greatest problem wasn’t weakness or apathy. In fact, I had been immensely successful in surpassing my peers on both fronts. Instead, I had become detested for one simple truth. I, unlike the brutish mammoths that had come to define manhood, possessed a kind and tender nature; much to the disgust of my father. A family of ‘real men’ had been the bloodline’s pride for generations. Yet, my parents appeared to have skipped this memo on the night I was conceived.

To explain, I, unlike the mindless Neanderthals that plagued my generation, didn’t take interest in becoming a womanising halfwit. I didn’t smoke, wasn’t crude and blatantly refused to engage in toxic behaviours. Instead, I preferred to let myself feel out of some misguided belief that it would allow me to help others. A true mistake. It wasn’t long before those around me began to correct these abhorrent actions. They were adamant that a man, a real man, was someone who could open bottles with their backside and had their tear ducks sewn shut. These were the views that had been embraced by my father and his father before him, in what had become an endless cycle of torment. And, as I lay silently reflecting upon this truth, I came to realise that it was my responsibility to break the loop. It was my responsibility to fix what had occurred.

***

On a harsh summer’s day, the golden sun belted our rural homestead with a ferocious and unwavering tenacity. Harrowing rays of fire seemed to leach the baron countryside of life, as an array of animals desperately sought refuge among the slowly receding shade of gnarled trees. In other words, it was perfect for a trip to the local watering hole. Jack Harrison, my best mate, made a poor decision as he ventured to quench his thirst that day. With a belly full of liquid courage backing his corner, the usually vigilant instincts that I had come to admire from him seemed to fall away. In their place, an impetuous attitude had arisen. Needless to say, this newly found recalcitrant streak was what lead to his undoing, as a one round fight sent him sprawling to the pavement.

When I first heard the news all I felt was numbness. It was numbness, like a buck of ice-cold water being pumped through my veins. The feeling was a pacifying veil that had been pulled over my mind, a safety measure that shielded me from the truth. However, it was the words, “he’s gone”, that suddenly tore that veil open, allowing years of suppressed emotion to burst free. And, when my father discovered this distress, it became apparent that he wasn’t there to offer his condolences.

“Men don’t cry,” he yelled. “You’re a blight on the family name,” he screamed, “nothing but a trepid, emotional coward.” No matter how I tried to explained what had happened, the looming figure continued to hurl abuse. Each malicious statement massacred my mind. He wasn’t concerned about what had happened. He only cared that I man-up and deal with it. That was when he struck me.

Like a decrepit building on the verge of demolition, my jaw collapsed in on itself. The sudden stun of the wounding blow left me startled and dazed. It was in this state that I began to submit to my father’s influence. I began to relinquish my ethics as I embraced the only culturally viable emotion there is for a man, anger. My stomach started to churn as those feelings I had suppressed for so long suddenly morphed into hatred and fury. They encompassed my heart, mind, muscles and body, preparing me to lash out in the same manner that had led to Jack’s death. But, then I saw his expression. For some reason, that same vulnerability that I had always seen in myself appeared to emanate ever so slightly from my father’s eyes. The sight, though swift, leached my anger, dispelling it like air from a balloon and producing an inescapable regret as I realised what I had become. It was following this state of utter capitulation that I haphazardly stumbled back to my room, my sanctuary.

***

Lying in the consuming darkness, these memories seemed to wash over me. It was clear that that I could no longer sit idly by, waiting for the influences of society to corrupt my inner beliefs. Unless I wanted to lose myself, it would be necessary for me to reach out—to break free from the silent many—and resolve my family conflict. So, I made my approach.

He was gazing at an old photograph when I found him. The image, scratchy and faded after years of neglect, depicted a young boy with an exuberant smile. Beside him was a man, embracing his son. It was a representation of a happier time, before our relationship had fractured. My father turned to me now, shaking. I had never seen him so broken before, something which led me to realise that deep down we were the same. The only difference was one of us had succumb to social expectation. I decided then that I would never make the same mistake, and went to comfort him. To move forward, I had to be myself.