The Weight of Silence (Blogophilia 14.17)

The rain had begun to fall again, soft, steady, like a whisper against the glass. Julian was deep in thought. A fire crackled behind him, casting flickering shadows across the mahogany walls of the study. The smell of old books and expensive whiskey swirled, the kind that tasted like secrets.

He stared at the portrait above the fireplace. Gregory Langston. To the rest of the world, he was a visionary whose products changed the world. Behind closed doors, a monster with insatiable lusts. Gregory was dead now. A heart attack, they said. Alone in his penthouse, surrounded by luxury and no one who truly loved him. What was the last thought as he descended into the darkness? Did he want one more minute? Probably not. 

He was in his office the the call came. Julian had once admired him. Had once believed in the myth of the self-made man, the titan who built empires from dust. Gregory had taken Julian under his wing. Mentored him. Groomed him. You could say raped him. No. That wasn’t true. Julian happily submitted to his charms. 

As time went on, he saw beneath the tailored suits and charitable galas, he had seen the rot. Material success over the silenced victims. It was the price of power.

He flipped on the antique radio in the corner. A song came on about being fine or closer to it. Another lie. Julian should have felt relief. Maybe even triumph. But instead, he felt the weight of complicity.

He remembered the girl, Elena, what was her last name? Bartkowski? Something like that. Bright, ambitious, barely twenty. She had reminded him of a mednicent waif, looking for succor. 

She had come to him once, trembling, eyes wide with fear. She had told him everything. How she had been trapped in the office with no escape. And Julian had done nothing. He had told himself it wasn’t his fight. In fact, he might have taken the same advantage, not to mention exposing Gregory’s crimes would destroy his own career. Maybe someone else would do the dirty work.

No one did. They would have disappeared much the way Elena did shortly after. Her name was never spoken again by either one. The cycle would repeat over and over again with other interns and sycophants looking to find favor. But Elena’s situation stuck in his mind. She trusted him and found the crack in his reflection.

Now Gregory was gone, and the world mourned a man they thought was great. Julian sat in silence, the firelight dancing on his face, wondering if justice had ever truly come—or if it had simply died with the man who had evaded it for so long.

He poured another glass of whiskey and whispered her name.

“Elena.”

It was the first time he had said it aloud.

And it would not be the last.