Disclaimer: I don't own Festen or any of the characters in it. duh!
Mature themes in this story. Please don't read if you are under 16.
"And then he used to rape us. And then he used to rape us. And then he used to rape us. And then he used to rape us. And then he used to rape us. And then he used to rape us."
My secret was out. I had finally worked up the courage to tell them all what kind of a man my father really was. Of course they had all reacted the way I knew they would. At first they denied it and tried to brush it under the carpet, telling me I was delusional, that I must have been talking to my invisible friend too much. I left. I ran out ready to leave. Helmut made me stay. He said that this was my night. I had to tell them, make then understand. I returned to the dining room and sat back down. Once again they were at their stupid glass tapping routine, making the usual pompous self congratulatory speeches my family was known for. I rapped on my glass once more and stood. I hadn't thought through what I would say. The words just left my lips and I heard them as if one of the spectators. I apologized for my behavior. I said what a wonderful man my father was. What a murderer he was. He murdered my sister. Then they were angry. They chased me, shouting. I know I hid under the table. I don't know how long I was there, just sitting curled in a ball, quiet, but it wasn't long enough. They found me and dragged me out. No one believed me. Or at least they didn't want to. My father managed to get me in a room alone with him. He tried to blame it on me. He said that it was my entire fault; that I had destroyed his family with my madness. Madness. Yes, maybe I am mad, but if I am it is him that has made me so. I spent 6 months in the asylum in Paris, locked in a room, drugs swirling through my veins, confusing my thoughts; they didn't stop them though. I still saw him in my dreams. I couldn't bear to sleep at night because the moment my eyes shut I'd see him holding out straws. Would it be me or my sister who would taste his cock that night? They caught me. My own brother helped to tie me up. He hit me. I could taste the blood in my mouth. It was warm, metallic like, running down from my nose and into my mouth. It tasted like betrayal. I tasted that punch rather than felt it. They left me there, laid out on the flood unable to move while they all went about trying to pretend nothing had happened once again. For a long while I simply lay there, tears streaming down my face, mingling with the blood in my mouth and on my shirt. The bonds on my wrists slowly worked themselves loose and I was able to free myself. I went into my sister's room, my twin sister Lydia's room not Helene's. It had always been Helene's room. She had lived in it, and died in it. Died in her bath. Dead. Dead with her wrists slit. She was gone and now Helene was in there. She had left a letter on her bed. Just a scrap of paper really. I read it. I read the note my dead twin had left. She had left it there knowing that one of us would find it. She left it there so that people would know. She didn't need to tell me. I already knew. She loved me but I had left her. I'd left her alone and she'd dreamed of him. She'd dreamed of him raping her the way he used to as a child. He killed her. He was why she was dead. I stayed there on the floor by her bed while they danced around the house singing and laughing. I was waiting. Before this night ended they would know. They would understand. My dear beloved sister would make them listen. Mette's child took my note. She was always a sweet thing. She placed it in the wine glass as I had told her, knowing exactly the customs and rituals of my family. The note was read. Word of the letter was out. Helene would have to read it now. She would have to tell them. I wanted to watch. Michael went for me again but they wouldn't let him. They wanted to hear the mystery letter. She read it. She spoke the words of my dead Linda. They all heard now. They all listened to how she killed herself because of him. I saw his face. Not a single muscle twitch until it was over. He was angry though. I could always tell. I had been able to ever since I was a child. It was always worse when he was angry. My lips moved again, asking why. Why had he done this to me? Why?
"Because it was all you were good for." "Because it was all you were good for." "Because it was all you were good for." "Because it was all you were good for."
My brother tried to hurt him. He kicked him and he hit him. There was noise, and blood. I remember stopping it. There would be no more blood. I held him close to me. It was the first time I had held another person close to me since I was a child. Since before he had started raping us. He never touched Michael. He was at boarding school, safe. Michael, my brother. My brother Michael, who smelled of sweat and blood and alcohol. His shirt was wet both with the water thrown by Gbotkai and with my tears. Tears were an odd sensation. I had been a long time since that last happened. They were salty hot and I could feel them streaking down my cheeks and dripping from the end of my nose. Before long he had pulled away. The family parted ways and quietly went to bed. I doubt sleep came easily to any that night. I know that I dreamed of him. I dreamed of him abusing my child's body. I could feel the pain between my legs and the shame colouring my cheeks. Morning was not a second too early. The dining room table had been set as always, not a glass with a single fingerprint or a trace of last night colouring the room. We ate in silence. They asked how I was. I was fine. Everyone was there. It was all so proper. He even tapped on his glass before standing to make his speech. I never heard his words. All I know was that he was leaving. He would never be coming back. He would never hurt me again. He'd never hurt me again apart from every night when he haunted my dreams. He left, my mother stayed. My family was changed. They had tried so hard to hold on, to ignore last night, but our past had worked its way back to the present. My father was gone, but his legacy was not. My sister was still dead. I was still Christian, the child he had abused. My mother has still seen me in his study with his cock in my mouth. My brother was still angry and my sister was still….still her. We hadn't changed. Nothing had. It still hurt. I had thought this feeling would go. Talking should have made it better. Isn't that what they all say? They lied. The feeling will never go. I will always remember my past. It is what makes me who I am. It is what makes my sister a corpse in a grave in our family cemetery. It is why I will join her. They say that slitting your wrists while in a nice hot bath is a reasonable way to go. It worked for my sister, so I see no reason why it would not work for me. It will not be long before I see her again. Maybe we can play hide and seek again.
"Linda, I'm coming to find you." "Linda, I'm coming to find you." "Linda, I'm coming to find you." "Linda, I'm coming to find you." "Linda. I'm coming to find you."