three. voice.
The Liar.
By Katurian Katurian.
[His voice starts off anxious, an almost panicked rush, but within moments, he's fallen into a rhythm. He sounds certain. Powerful.]
Once upon a time in a land not so far away, there lived a small family on the edge of a quiet, idyllic forest, and a-although this family lived a generally p-peaceful life, the husband and father believed with all his heart that each and every person in the world was a liar or - more specifically - that they lied to him, for selfish reasons, for cruel reasons, for no reason at all. He wouldn't believe the baker when he told him he had sold the last of his French bread. He wouldn't believe the police when they told him there was a car accident just a little ways up the road. He wouldn't believe his wife when she was in labor - both times - and when she returned from the hospital, all tired-eyed and beaming, he wouldn't believe that the children were his own.
One day, while on a walk in the woods, he encountered a poor, starving man in the mud, picking for insects in the grime, and the stranger begged him-- [A hoarse plea.] "Please, just a bite...!" and though the man had with him a roast chicken he couldn't quite believe was chicken, he assumed that the man was playing a trick on him. "You'll get not a single bite from me!" he yelled, and he smacked the stranger across the face once, hard, and the starving man spit blood onto the ground. That in itself was not unsettling. It was what came next, how the starving man looked him in the eye, his cheeks hollow, his brow sallow and sagging, and spoke one, simple word:
"Liar."
The man returned home, shaken. He did not tell his wife and two daughters about the stranger he found in the woods that evening, for he feared they would find him foolish and cowardly, or worse, that they would doubt him and believe the other. He fixed up the chicken he had brought home with him and the whole family sat around the dining room table, ready to enjoy what was to be - unbeknownst to them - their last meal together.
"Papa," said the littlest one, just a few minutes into the dinner, rubbing at the crook of her tiny elbow. "My arm hurts." And the man thought she was lying.
"Papa," said the eldest, her hair done in blue silk ribbons. She grimaced. "My leg hurts." And the man thought she was lying, too.
"Darling," said his wife, a dangerous paleness to her delicate cheeks. "My stomach hurts." And that was too much for the man, who got up from the table and took his plate into the bedroom with him, locking the door behind him with an echoing click. He ate the rest of his dinner - the green beans, the summer squash, the chicken - scraping the plate clean save for a discolored bean, and when he found himself to be suitably calm, he opened the door and went back into the kitchen. An eerie silence filled the house, ducking between the nooks and crannies, and with each step towards the dining room table, a unmistakable dread welled up in him. He smelled the blood before he saw it. Sticky red handprints littered the floor and walls. Pools dripped down the edges of the fancy dinner chairs, spiraling down the wooden bars like waterfalls. The image was so strong, so vivid that he swore he could taste blood in his own mouth, and then he realized that he could, that there was blood in his mouth, and that his family was nowhere to be seen. All that was left was a single finger - his wife's - resting on her plate in the exact same place as his forgotten bean.
[Pause.]
The police found the man three days later, curled up on the kitchen floor with a note clutched in his hands. His stomach had burst. For some reason, the note said, he had been convinced, completely convinced that he had eaten his entire family, and that by eating all the food in his pantry, he could somehow eat himself and therefore join them. His wife, who had been on a walk with their two daughters at the time to get fresh air for some sore muscles and mild indigestion, told them it had been so much strange. It was so unlike her husband, to lie to himself.
[Pause. From the background, there's a soft, slow clapping. Katurian seems unaware that it's still recording.]
There. I told you it-- it wouldn't be so long. And it was nice too, wasn't it? Very benign. Very-- not pleasant, exactly, but more like--
[The feed cuts off.]
By Katurian Katurian.
[His voice starts off anxious, an almost panicked rush, but within moments, he's fallen into a rhythm. He sounds certain. Powerful.]
Once upon a time in a land not so far away, there lived a small family on the edge of a quiet, idyllic forest, and a-although this family lived a generally p-peaceful life, the husband and father believed with all his heart that each and every person in the world was a liar or - more specifically - that they lied to him, for selfish reasons, for cruel reasons, for no reason at all. He wouldn't believe the baker when he told him he had sold the last of his French bread. He wouldn't believe the police when they told him there was a car accident just a little ways up the road. He wouldn't believe his wife when she was in labor - both times - and when she returned from the hospital, all tired-eyed and beaming, he wouldn't believe that the children were his own.
One day, while on a walk in the woods, he encountered a poor, starving man in the mud, picking for insects in the grime, and the stranger begged him-- [A hoarse plea.] "Please, just a bite...!" and though the man had with him a roast chicken he couldn't quite believe was chicken, he assumed that the man was playing a trick on him. "You'll get not a single bite from me!" he yelled, and he smacked the stranger across the face once, hard, and the starving man spit blood onto the ground. That in itself was not unsettling. It was what came next, how the starving man looked him in the eye, his cheeks hollow, his brow sallow and sagging, and spoke one, simple word:
"Liar."
The man returned home, shaken. He did not tell his wife and two daughters about the stranger he found in the woods that evening, for he feared they would find him foolish and cowardly, or worse, that they would doubt him and believe the other. He fixed up the chicken he had brought home with him and the whole family sat around the dining room table, ready to enjoy what was to be - unbeknownst to them - their last meal together.
"Papa," said the littlest one, just a few minutes into the dinner, rubbing at the crook of her tiny elbow. "My arm hurts." And the man thought she was lying.
"Papa," said the eldest, her hair done in blue silk ribbons. She grimaced. "My leg hurts." And the man thought she was lying, too.
"Darling," said his wife, a dangerous paleness to her delicate cheeks. "My stomach hurts." And that was too much for the man, who got up from the table and took his plate into the bedroom with him, locking the door behind him with an echoing click. He ate the rest of his dinner - the green beans, the summer squash, the chicken - scraping the plate clean save for a discolored bean, and when he found himself to be suitably calm, he opened the door and went back into the kitchen. An eerie silence filled the house, ducking between the nooks and crannies, and with each step towards the dining room table, a unmistakable dread welled up in him. He smelled the blood before he saw it. Sticky red handprints littered the floor and walls. Pools dripped down the edges of the fancy dinner chairs, spiraling down the wooden bars like waterfalls. The image was so strong, so vivid that he swore he could taste blood in his own mouth, and then he realized that he could, that there was blood in his mouth, and that his family was nowhere to be seen. All that was left was a single finger - his wife's - resting on her plate in the exact same place as his forgotten bean.
[Pause.]
The police found the man three days later, curled up on the kitchen floor with a note clutched in his hands. His stomach had burst. For some reason, the note said, he had been convinced, completely convinced that he had eaten his entire family, and that by eating all the food in his pantry, he could somehow eat himself and therefore join them. His wife, who had been on a walk with their two daughters at the time to get fresh air for some sore muscles and mild indigestion, told them it had been so much strange. It was so unlike her husband, to lie to himself.
[Pause. From the background, there's a soft, slow clapping. Katurian seems unaware that it's still recording.]
There. I told you it-- it wouldn't be so long. And it was nice too, wasn't it? Very benign. Very-- not pleasant, exactly, but more like--
[The feed cuts off.]