Haunts and Homes

Their faces were, thanks to the lights hanging above, a tad too bright and devoid of shadows. She motioned for him to sit down in one of the elegant chairs, then did the same, waiting for him to start the conversation. She had done this for a long time now, but she still felt the same rush whenever she had a new guest on for the very first time—after all, there was always the chance they’d surprise her. She’d given up hope—whenever she was foolish enough to hope, she was proven wrong, as though she were in a drama explicitly written to torture her. After a lingering moment of silence, he started speaking, slowly, delicately, as though he had a great tale to tell.

‘It feels strange to the back…’ He trailed off, legs crossed, a blank expression on his face. She waited for him to continue, then offered up a suggestion of her own: ‘Home?’

He shook his head a little too long, then hesitantly continued.

‘God no! I mean, yeah, I did grow up here, but it doesn’t feel like a home to me, if that makes sense. It’s more like a prison I escaped when I moved abroad to study. I just… don’t belong here. I’m a little too atheist, a little too gay, a little too liberal. Growing up, I felt like I had been cursed by the universe for a crime I committed in a previous life… I spent my adolescence dreaming of bigger, better things… And when I finally got to experience them, they weren’t what I was looking for. No matter where I went, I felt like some sort of misshapen blob tumbling from one awkward experience to the next. So I came back and here I am. Triumphant. Jubilant. Still that same blob, only more jaded. And in a way, nothing has changed, even though everything is profoundly different. It’s the same alleys, but now I know the misfits who’s been here before me, trying not to drown. All those artists I’d dismissed suddenly took on a new relevance: we were alike. Most of us were a little too gay. The only difference was that they were a lot too liberal and a lot too atheist. They had a much harder time, and it makes me feel like an ungrateful brat, because I complained endlessly, even though I had it easy. I wasn’t bullied. I wasn’t persecuted. I was just an edgy teenager who didn’t want to fit in and then… didn’t. And then I fled abroad, to live in that mystical place that was everywhere but here. And it wasn’t mystical, because life isn’t. So I’m here, trying to explain why you should vote for me, even though I’m a misshapen blob.’

He leaned back in his chair, a smile on his face. She nodded, searching for something to say in response. He had come on her show to announce his bid for governor, peddling—she’d assumed—some canned story about feeling homesick abroad, coming back, yearning to improve the home he so adored. She was unsure what to say. Usually, those interviews played out in similar ways, hitting the familiar beats. She never listened. She didn’t need to. Not that the election mattered. It was a pretence more than anything else. He didn’t stand a chance. He wasn’t the candidate of the party that had ruled since they had become a constitutional monarchy, then a republic, then a part of another country. They’d simply traded one arcane overlord for another. She almost felt sorry for him.

‘Well, maybe you could try to actually do that,’ she said, a wry smile on her lips, ‘you’ve not done a great job of that so far.’

‘I mean, yeah, but… yeah…’ He wrung his hands, as though trying to find an answer somewhere within them. ‘I feel like honesty is the most important thing in a politician. Complete honesty and transparency. You shouldn’t present in the best way you can, but rather in the most honest way.’

‘So, authentic?’