Dignity in Death
Preface: An Old Journey
His hands shook, the world stood still and suddenly there he was, all ten years of him, piled into one moment. He was standing before a masterpiece, a Picasso, one of the only ones left. The soft paper was yellow and crinkling, the original case seemed to be falling in on itself, decrepit inside the large glass case. He wished for nothing more than to press his hands to it, examine the brush strokes, marvel in its beauty, but his father was pulling on his arm as it was time to go. Somehow, it was always time to go. His father was a good man, and in Cecil’s eyes, he was magical, yet somehow, the light shining above him seemed to dim. He knew as the beauty before him faded slowly, what he wanted to do, in that moment, nothing could stop him, nothing could keep the bright-eyed boy from being exactly what he wanted to be.
Cecil Diggory, the son of an unsuccessful American painter, his father’s paintings went for little over a couple pounds, they were barely making due on the provisions they had, and he could see his father degenerating. Society frowned upon their small home, they never expected Cecil to become anything more than they proclaimed their father to be. A vermin on the streets, a vagabond stealing to make due. Intentions didn’t change the act in the law’s mind, intentions were merely excuses. He would prove them wrong, all of them. Cecil Diggory was made for greatness.
“Papa, will I ever be like Picasso?” Cecil asked one morning over breakfast. His father ignored him. He asked again. He was beginning to ask the third time when his father seemed to swell with anger, transforming three times his size.
“Don’t ever ask that, don’t try to become an artist. Become an engineer, yes, an engineer; that is where the money is. An engineer.” The musing tone Mr. Diggory, a plump man with a large mustache, frightened the boy. Mr. Diggory returned to shoveling large spoons of synthetic eggs into his mouth.
When Cecil asked his father, a year or so before, why they were S-Eggs, not just eggs, his father replied that it didn’t matter, just eat them. (Everyone seemed to say, it didn’t matter). Of course, he did some research after that, unappeased with his father’s answer. He found that ages before, actual chickens would make the eggs, but when the famine hit, and the demand was too high and the producing wasn’t enough, the chickens no longer could keep up. Most of them died and so they had to make sure all the eggs were fertilized, and they stopped allowing people to eat eggs.
It didn’t make any sense to Cecil, not until he was older.
Then again, not a lot made any sense to Cecil until he was older.
Cecil Diggory, the son of an unsuccessful American painter, his father’s paintings went for little over a couple pounds, they were barely making due on the provisions they had, and he could see his father degenerating. Society frowned upon their small home, they never expected Cecil to become anything more than they proclaimed their father to be. A vermin on the streets, a vagabond stealing to make due. Intentions didn’t change the act in the law’s mind, intentions were merely excuses. He would prove them wrong, all of them. Cecil Diggory was made for greatness.
“Papa, will I ever be like Picasso?” Cecil asked one morning over breakfast. His father ignored him. He asked again. He was beginning to ask the third time when his father seemed to swell with anger, transforming three times his size.
“Don’t ever ask that, don’t try to become an artist. Become an engineer, yes, an engineer; that is where the money is. An engineer.” The musing tone Mr. Diggory, a plump man with a large mustache, frightened the boy. Mr. Diggory returned to shoveling large spoons of synthetic eggs into his mouth.
When Cecil asked his father, a year or so before, why they were S-Eggs, not just eggs, his father replied that it didn’t matter, just eat them. (Everyone seemed to say, it didn’t matter). Of course, he did some research after that, unappeased with his father’s answer. He found that ages before, actual chickens would make the eggs, but when the famine hit, and the demand was too high and the producing wasn’t enough, the chickens no longer could keep up. Most of them died and so they had to make sure all the eggs were fertilized, and they stopped allowing people to eat eggs.
It didn’t make any sense to Cecil, not until he was older.
Then again, not a lot made any sense to Cecil until he was older.