The Day I Killed My Father by Mario Sabino Page A

can’t say I was happy about it, but it didn’t bother me that much either. To be honest, it helped reinforce my decision not to tell him anything.’
    â€˜He should pay for the abortion. You’re going to have an abortion, of course. I’ll pay.’
    â€˜I’m not having an abortion.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜I want a kid now. I’m already thirty-five, and finding a man who would meet my long list of requirements would take too much time. Not to mention the fact that the odds of my search failing are greater than my odds of success.’
    â€˜You’ve lost it …’
    â€˜â€¦â€™
    â€˜I’d like this kid to be mine, Bernadette. Why don’t you have an abortion so we can have a baby of our own?’
    â€˜This conversation ends here, Antonym. When you get your head screwed on right, we can talk again.’
    â€˜You shouldn’t have done this to me. I need you, and now a foetus has come between us. You’re going to love this kid more than you ever loved me.’
    â€˜You need help, Antonym.’
    â€˜Not that psychologist crap again. You’re the one who’s sick, Bernadette. Who ever heard of having a kid like this?’
    â€˜You know what, Antonym? Go fuck yourself. Since we split up, I’ve been making plans that have a chance of working out. I no longer suffer from paralysis — your paralysis. Your inaction, your boredom, your depression contaminated me for a decade. A decade! It’s what my analyst calls my “lost decade”. The best thing that’s happened in my life was breaking up with the sick person you’ve become. Your cynicism is the fruit of your frustration, your limitations — as a man, as a professional, as a human being. You’re cynical, Antonym, because you’re mediocre. And your cynicism is a comfortable way to hide this fact of life. I might not be anything special, Antonym, I might not know what I am, but I do know what I’m not. And I’m not like you, OK? Or, better, I’m not you. I’m me. Me.’
    â€˜Bernadette, I know this isn’t the time for philosophy, but don’t you see that the “self” is largely a construction based on an “other”? That the self doesn’t exist entirely on its own, but is also built around an external gaze? Since I have been and am part of your existence, my self is a part of your self — and that’s something you’ll never be free of. It can’t be taken back. This is everyone’s hell.’
    â€˜Who do you think you are — some kind of Sartre? You want philosophy? Well, listen up: my self, which may actually contain a part of your self, no longer wants to see itself reflected in this other that is you. By bringing me down to your level, you tried to stop me from having the simplest, most precious, things in the world, Antonym. Where’s the noise of children scampering through the house? Where are the family lunches on Sundays? Where are the holidays on the beach? Where’s that comfortable boredom that people who love one another feel after years of life in common? Where are the plans: for a bigger house, an exotic holiday, a place in the country, for … for … For God’s sake, Antonym, I don’t despise everything middle class! I want to be middle-class, OK? I want to have noisy reactions like this. Do you hear me? Do you want that translated into psychologist crap? Well, here: I’ve smashed the mirror, Mr Narcissus, and in this other self, growing here in my womb, there won’t be any of your self. None at all.’
    â€˜You’re wrong, Bernadette! What hurts me most is knowing that my self — which shaped part of your self — will inhabit the self of the child of this guy who slept with you.’
    â€˜No, Antonym, this is all just another one of your abstractions. What hurts you most is the fact that I’ve got myself a