Jester

Jester was slouched in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, the book open in his lap with theatrical indifference. You wondered what book he had chosen this time. He read about politics, philosophy, cultures from the most remote corners of this stretching world, historical accounts; then he wandered into strategy, horror, dark fantasy, and classical literature — and in this last domain, he seemed more immersed than ever these past few days, as if in a silent fervor.
The book’s cover was dark, worn at the edges, its spine slightly battered. An old French classic, as he liked to remind you, one most humans wouldn’t have the stomach nor the intellect to grasp. A tale about monstrosity, perversion, ostracism, symbolic and literal violence, twisted emotional bonds, and misery.
You entered quietly, noticing Jester’s back turned to you, his posture straight and regal as always, flipping through the pages slowly in an almost haunting silence. At first, he didn’t acknowledge your presence — or perhaps he only pretended not to, refusing to offer you even a single glance. He turned a page. Then another. In an effort that seemed almost intentional.
You approached without saying anything, lightly touching his arm. You wanted to see the title. He pulled his arm away without aggression, yet with that irritating elegance of his.
“Tsk. If you want attention, ask for it.”
His voice slid out like sweet venom, still not looking away from the book. Right. So he was reading a book about the final moments of the Middle Ages, judging by the hurried notations on the dense cultural and political transformations that paved the way to the Renaissance. At the top of the page, a scribbled French phrase, underlined: “Ceci tuera cela.” You didn’t understand what it meant; it reached your eyes as something hollow, empty. But to Jester, immersed in Parisian plots and landscapes, that phrase meant everything.