I had not cried, not since everything happened anyway. Doing so surely it would make me less than a man, at least in my father's eyes. I had every reason to cry, certainly : the overwhelming feelings of rage, sorrow and helplessness, but tears would not come. As a matter of fact, I rarely cry at all. It was the only success my father had with me, I imagine. A man doesn't cry, you see, and I don't. I just bottle my pain inside and keep my stiff upper lip. Father would be proud.

But then here I am, blubbering like an idiot because of a bloody newsflash. I feel like I’m losing myself, I don’t understand myself anymore.

When I was a young lad, my mum would read fairy tales to me in the evenings. My father said it would make me stupid and weak, and I used to argue. But then I became an “intellectual” as he states it and I have a feeling he thinks what he said has come to pass. I don’t feel stupid and weak... or at least, not shallow. I feel like a rock, like my heart stopped beating when that knife sliced open my throat and I let go of the baby.

Most of the stories my mum told me took place in France. She loved that country even though she never had the chance to visit there more than once or twice in her lifetime, and she convinced me France was the greatest country ever, because it had that wonderful atmosphere and those charming cottages and , of course, French people. While I was training at the Council I went once in Paris for a seminar, but I didn’t get to tour the countryside. Yet, Paris had seemed so enchanting and from that moment on, I knew I was about to become as obsessed as my mother (probably another source of disappointment to my father) : I loved France.

It wasn't love, of course, not after I thought about it. I was never a Christian (another failure of my life, Father would say) and I never believed in Heaven. I believed in fighting the good fight, doing what I could with my life, then retiring to a small cottage with my wife and then dying, warm and happy in my bed, and then I would just stop living. In this scenario that was supposed to be my life, there was a sort of paradise: the place of my retirement. It became quite obvious to me that this place had to be France because it was the closest you could get to heaven on Earth. The people and the country were charming, they never did anything horridly wrong, it was the country that gave us Montaigne, Molière and Voltaire, and the politics were good, especially for the last twenty years. No, I don’t really love France, but it’s where I will die. It’s truly going to be my paradise.

Even though I’ve been pretty close to hell for days now, I hadn’t thought about France for quite a while. Surely thinking about it would only make me think I was far from getting that French paradise as I'd ever been in my life. The point is that I wasn’t thinking much about France. And then this morning I turned on my TV to the BCC channel.

The TV keeps me sane, you see. It gives me something to listen to, to think about, and I’m ever thankful for that. I think if I had only myself and my thoughts concerning the latest events, I would surly have died already. Not necessarily because I would have killed myself, but because my soul would have withered away. And it already has, in a way. A rock has no soul, has it? I don’t feel anything anymore. It's as if my soul has gone numb.

The onyl thing that caught my eye was a shot of a British newspaper with "France's Shame" scrawled across the front page. My soul’s numb, but my brain isn’t. I understood what had happened in a matter of minutes. Presidential elections in France. Loads of little parties and divisions especially on the left wing (which would be quite like the Labor Party if I remember correctly). A lot of abstention (because Paris was on holidays!). And a nightmare coming to life : the Fascist party is one of the leading party of this election.

It’s all too complicated to explain, really (I took French politics for two years at the Council College and I’m still missing some basics). But this was the first round of the election. There’s a second round where you only have two candidates left and the one who gets most votes is elected. And the fact is this time French people won’t have to choose between the left and the right wing as in any usual election : the Fascist party received so many votes it will be running against the leader of the right wing for Presidency, leaving the left wing with nothing.

It can’t explain how devastating this was. I’ve never been that close to France, I didn’t even know there was an election this Sunday. But the TV was kind enough to share the feelings that had taken over France : anger and woe. The fact that it was precisely the only feelings I've had for days likely helped me to get it, but what I know for sure is that I was soon unable to look away from the TV. People were crying, hugging each other, marching in protest. The slogans were hard to read but they were clearly full of wrath. These people had left their houses at 8 pm and gathered themselves in the big cities of France without anyone calling for a gathering. It should have been fascinating, but the circumstances only made it sad. And then journalists asked them question and most of people seemed to agree that all that had happened was because the abstention was so high, especially in the younger population. One girl was asked her opinion, and she seemed so angry with all the kids her age that had'nt bother to vote. That’s when she said it.

“Vous imaginez si LePen devient Président? Vous imaginez? Franchement? Y a plus de France. Y a plus de France.” (Can you imagine if Le Pen becomes President? Can you image? Honestly? There’s no France anymore. There’s no France.)

And that’s when I started crying.

**********

It had nothing to do with the situation in France, really, you understand. I’m not French. I didn’t vote that day. I don’t think that the Fascist leader will get elected President anyway. I do care about what happens, yes, but only as an outside observer. It certainly doesn’t have enough to make me *cry*. It was that phrase. “There’s no France.”

All my illusions were crushed. I can’t explain it. I didn’t have much hope left, but the last few strands of hope that I *did* have left in me vanished after the girl spoke those words. There’s no France. There’s no good place where I’ll retire.

There’s no heaven on Earth.

So now I cry. I cry because I loved Connor, I loved that baby so very much and I was going to teach him things about demons and humans and how to play darts. I cry because I was so happy for Angel. He deserved to have that child. I cry because I helped people steal Connor away and that’s the exact opposite of what I wanted. I wanted Connor to be safe, to live and become a wonderful child and a clever teenager and a man. A man that could cry when he nedded to. And now he’s gone.

I bite my lips and the tears stop flowing. The TV is still babbling, but the tears are gone. I’m back to my usual state, except it’s worse. I want to hurt myself so much now. I bite my lips because I saw Angel’s grief – actually English has no word strong enough to describe his pain – and becasue he was so fierce with his pain that he tried to kill me. Because I made my friends, my *family*, either want to kill me or not want to see me ever again. Because I love Fred and if I come across her, she’ll probably give me that hurt look that I can’t bear. Because I’m alone in my gloomy apartment and I have no one to go to, no one to turn to, no one to offer me comfort. But I’m the one responsible of that. Because I know Angel’s going through the grieving process and I don’t want him to. I want to kill myself for everything I did and give him Connor back. Because I think of the cradle that Angel will face evryday and I know that it’ll rip his heart to do so. Because I want to go to him and help him but I know that I can't.

I look at the pictures of French people crying on TV and I take a deep breath. I won’t cry. Not anymore.

***********

I feel like something has changed in me. I feel similar to that morning, the one after Faith tortured me, except it’s a thousand times worse. But back then, some part of me knew I would be able to deal with it and move on. Today’s different. I won’t be able to deal with it because even if I were to do so, I don’t matter. It's Angel's forgiveness I need now, and I know I won't get it. No one will forgive me my sins, and I can't really blame them and, of course, I won't. The blame is all mine.

We’re stuck in this situation, and will be forever, I guess. Or it will get worse.

Because I’m dying.

I’m becoming bitter and growing so very old. I can feel it running through my body, the bitterness, that is. I know it won’t make anything better, won't anything easier. It’s like every thing I’ve hold back for years is coming back to me and drawing me even depper into my well of bitterness and despair. I hate it, I really do, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Even the bloody newsflash makes me bitter. I think I’m lost. I think I’ll never talk nicely to any other person again. I think I’ll never be able to look at a kid and not see Connor. I think I’m just a dead soul surviving in a living body. I died when I let go of Connor. I’ll probably never be back, no matter what happens.

I know I can forget about a French paradise.