The flickering fluorescent lights of the asylum hallway cast long, skeletal shadows as Christian Dior, his face etched with a weariness that belied his years, approached the visiting room. He’d been dreading this meeting, this confrontation with a ghost from a past he desperately tried to bury. His brother, Bernard. A name whispered only in hushed tones, a shadow lurking at the edges of his meticulously crafted life.
Bernard sat hunched in a worn armchair, his eyes, once bright and mischievous, now dull and distant. The once vibrant spark of his personality seemed extinguished, replaced by a chilling quietude. Christian pulled up a chair, the metallic screech a jarring sound in the sterile environment. The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken words and years of estrangement.
“Bernard,” Christian began, his voice a low tremor. The name felt foreign on his tongue, a relic from a happier, simpler time.
Bernard merely nodded, his gaze fixed on something unseen beyond the window. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock somewhere down the hall – a relentless, mocking counterpoint to the stillness.
“It’s… been a long time,” Christian continued, searching for an opening, a point of connection in this desolate landscape.
Bernard finally spoke, his voice a raspy whisper, barely audible above the hum of the ventilation system. “Silence. We live in silence. But it’s not solace, Christian. Not really.”
His words hung in the air, a stark summation of his existence within these walls. Christian understood. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was a suffocating blanket of isolation, a prison of the mind. He thought of the clamor of his own life, the whirlwind of haute couture, the relentless pursuit of beauty and innovation – a stark contrast to his brother's desolate reality.
“Mother…” Bernard’s voice cracked. The mention of their mother, a woman of fierce strength and unwavering faith, brought a wave of emotion to Christian's face. He remembered her disappointment, her quiet, unyielding sorrow at the path Bernard had chosen. A path that had led him here, to this desolate place.
“She would have… she would have been gravely disappointed with the idea of… of this,” Bernard continued, his voice trailing off. The unspoken words hung heavy between them – the idea of failure, of madness, of a life unlived according to the expectations of a woman who had poured her heart and soul into raising her sons. Christian knew what Bernard meant. Not just the asylum, but the entire trajectory of his life, a stark divergence from the path laid out for him, the path Christian himself had so meticulously followed.
Christian’s own success, the empire he had built on the foundation of his “New Look,” felt suddenly hollow, a bitter triumph in the face of his brother's tragedy. The vibrant world of fashion, with its glittering runways and adoring crowds, seemed distant and unreal in the stark reality of this sterile room.
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