Confessions Of A Vicomte - Entry Two · Jun 28, 05:34 AM

Dear Diary,

There is not much else in this world I enjoy more than a day on the beach with my family. Christine enjoys the sun, and our children happily play in the waves, squealing joyfully every time the monstrous waters lap at their feet gently. Each and every one of them are loving our little ‘trip’, even though I have no intentions on going back to our old home. It is – without doubt – fraught with danger; not to mention the home I had grown to love was most likely the victim of the ‘Bashers’, during a fenzied hatred of my escape from their grasp.

Yesterday little Lewis walked up to me, – grinning to show off his little gapped set of teeth – and asked me if I loved his mother. I said of course, I always loved her, and I always would. He climbed up into my lap, wrapped his little arms around me as far as he possibly could, and then looked up at me, a tear in his eye. I asked him what was the matter, and he answered me, “It’s alright, father. You love mother more than me, is all. I love you more than anybody in the whole world. But that’s alright.”

Embracing him, my own eyes welling up with tears of pride, and love, I assured him that I loved them both, and all his siblings, more than anything, or anybody. After I explained to him that a person could love more than one person the most, the sweetest expression of elation crossed his features. “Really?” He gasped, gripping my arm tighter than I thought possible for such a small person. “Father, don’t tell me tales; mother says that’s wrong.”

Kissing him on the forehead, I stood up and took his little hand in mine. “I don’t tell tales, my boy. Mother is right; it’s wrong. You can love as many people as you like, as much as you like.”

He hugged my hand, smiling so broadly I was sure his pink lips would touch each of his ears. “I love you, father.”

“I love you, too.”

Now sitting out into the bright sun, looking up from the pages of my diary, I am met with the sight of my happy family collecting branches that the sea left as a gift to them. We will be having a bonfire this night, for certain. My children will fight to sit on their parents’ laps, then Christine will teach them a new song, her beautiful voice ringing through the night, leading them all in succession. I will try to keep up, but my off-key singing will certainly bring more laughter than praise. Caroline will turn and kiss her mother’s cheek, and inform her once again that she wants to be a pretty singer, like her mother. Christine will blush bright scarlet, and Caroline will turn towards me, and declare that, “Father isn’t a pretty singer; but he tries.”

Giggling and peals of laughter will be heard all around our little beach, and I will be content.

~Raoul de Chagny

— MaskedNicci

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