Path of the Vampire forum

Posted: **08 Apr 2016, 12:44**

I . s k u l l

They told me in a phone call. I was on my way to Milan for fashion week in one of the family's private jets. I'd been flipping through some trashy magazine filled with modern couture. Soft lines juxtaposed with garish and bright baubles. At an eye roll a minute, I tossed the pages aside when they brought me the on flight phone. Something about the electrical system. For some reason, I couldn't use my cell. Wasn't that the point of owning your own plane? To set your own rules? Inferior quality if you ask me. Whatever. I'm over it. I put the phone to my ear, and I heard the words. But I didn't really hear them. I kept waiting for more, saying nothing. I'm not normally like that. Quite. I have things to say, and I say them. But how do you comment on the death of your parents? A car crash. Bam. The end. Nothing. The only people who had ever mattered to me even tangentially. They were taken away, and what the **** did that even mean?

My uncle kept talking to me, saying things that didn't matter. I let the words flood over me, and then I just hung up the phone because I needed silence. So I called for another magazine, and that was how I finished out my flight. I went to Milan, and I watched the runways and ignored the insistent buzzing of my phone the entire time. I didn't need to think about the impending funeral. I was twenty ******* years old. How was I supposed to cope with that loss? So I didn't.

Flash.

I dressed in black. I wore a veil. Some of the cousins were scandalized I had shown up like that. But if I need to make my best Daisy St. Patience impression to make sure nobody notices the fogging in my eyes, then that's my business. So I stood like a statue in front of their coffins. Closed casket because they had gotten really mangled in the crash. I ran my fingertips over the smooth wood. They were buried a short time later. I took the black veil off and threw it into their shared grave, donned a pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses for men. Then I turned and I left.

Flash.

I was back home. New York, New York. I was raised there. I knew the streets, and I knew Broadway and I had cut my teeth on mommy's diamond crusted bracelets. She liked to wear dozens of them. So tacky. But that was who she was. Extravagance. At some point, you go so far out of the norm for fashion that you create your own little universe for haute couture. She did that. Easily. A wave of the hand, and she set new trends. She was a model at one point. Years ago. Then she went into design. Daddy was a lawyer, and they got along about as well as fire and gasoline. They were constantly fighting. Always bickering. Always angry, because they were constantly doing these stupid little power plays. They loved each other more than any two people in the world. More than they loved me. I accepted that when I was growing up. The past. History. Over it. They loved each other more than I think I can love anyone.

So there I am, back home, and I'm trying to get back into my own life. I graduated from high school at seventeen, and they gifted me with my own apartment. It was their not so subtle way of saying they were going to keep me at home no matter the cost. Which was fine. I was used to their little manipulations. I wanted to go to NYU anyway. I had just gotten my bachelor's degree in business a few weeks before the trip. The vacation itself was my little treat...to myself. Victory. Victori Spolia. Words to live by.

Flash.

I'm standing behind that big mansion house in the middle of the woods. They're putting up a pillar on a cement block with some words on it. It's a tribute to my parents. The one year anniversary of their death. They deserved a tribute, the way they bailed the family out of debt after...well. That's a story for another time. The ceremony was brief. I thought I was going to cry at some point, but I never even got the urge. I guess by that point I really was over it all. They were my parents. They gave me life. Then they died. Maybe I just can't connect to people the way I should. Stonefaced. One of the family members said some nice words, and then I turned to leave again. Because I barely knew most of those people. Because I only saw most of them once a year. Good memories, but they always featured my parents. So I didn't want to think about them, or how much they reminded me of both of them.

Flash.

Before I could leave, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I knew it was time. Time for the thing I had been running from. So they sat me down and they talked to me about responsibility. The Aegis. They used phrases like 'time honored' and 'family duty'. I just wanted to escape the whole thing, because I didn't really get it at all. The Aegis. That was what they had called my father. Protector of the family. The lawyer. He had kept any number of them out of trouble over the years. But I had zero interest in law. But that's not how it works apparently. Inherited. The next thing I know, I'm being sworn in, and being given my 'emblem of office'. That's what they call it. Emblem. It's a shield. They say it's this great honor. They tell me my father would be proud. They say to me that I look just like he did at my age, and that I will grow into it. The desire to protect my family.

Flash.

I went back home to New York. I ran away. Sell your religion to someone who's buying.

Posted: **08 Apr 2016, 12:51**

I I . s p i n e

It started in the summer of my fourteenth year. The economy had taken a hit in more ways than one, and the great family had branches on its tree that were withering under the glare of a star called 'debt' and another called 'recession'. Of course, Johanna (stylized 'Jo' when she was a model) August von der Marck and Friedrich von der Marck were untouchable. But that didn't surprise anyone. Some people are born with a green thumb. Us? We're born with something like that, but the 'green' in question hasn't got anything to do with plant-life. So we were the safe harbor in a storm of financial **** that had plagued our house for the better part of a decade. At one point we had funds set aside. Everyone contributed to the non-profit. The off-shore accounts. The untaxable family fortune. The reserve of oil yet to be tapped, safe and ready to be used at a hard time. 'Tithe', we used to call it. But at some point, someone got greedy and we lost it all. Legal action? Nope. When your money is all illegal anyway, and it's family that fucks you over, there's not much you can do except part ways.

So we took in one of my single 'aunts', whose husband had died fighting in the the only war of our generation. The 'non' war. The fight against terrorism which happened on foreign soil, but rippled back across the ocean at the most inconvenient times. I had only ever met aunt Olivia during those yearly family meetings. Barely then. I had been a kid through most of them, and for a boy, those things are just about the running. And the games. And the fun. I was thirteen before I realized there was more to it. And even then, she was just a phantasm to me. Another adult in the sea of adult faces, about as familiar as a classmate I never talk to. But we took her in because she had three kids, and had been eating through her savings trying to keep afloat. She couldn't find work, because she had gotten out of school and immediately become a mother. I remember the conversation where my parents broke it to me. We were out at lunch and I had just put a mushroom from my coq au vin into my mouth. I nearly choked when they said they were having three more children. Then they laughed. I didn't see the humor in it. What a joke. Taking in a bunch of people we barely knew.

But I was fourteen and didn't really have a say. So it happened, and they took up two more rooms in our flat. I had to share with the oldest boy, because things were cramped. You don't live in New York for space. You live there for the fashion, and the lifestyle, and the convenience. So we were all sardined together, and things just got worse from there. I'm not sure if you noticed, but I like my comfort. And trying to negotiate two bathrooms (one of which was an en suite for mummy and daddy), between seven people is hell. They stayed for two years, and by the time school was going to tick around, there was a new conversation on the table. Olivia couldn't afford to send her kids to the prestigious private school I went to. My parents offered to pay, but she refused after seeing the tuition. So instead, she was just going to send them to a public school. And my parents got to thinking (always a bad sign, that) 'Well maybe it would be good for Gregor to get the social experience.' Sellout bastards. ******* cunts. Social experience. Social. Experience. I am a social experience, and even that young I knew it was just one more way to make Olivia feel better. At my expense.

So I went to Eleanor Roosevelt High. I told myself at least it's still in the Upper East Side. At least it's not some inner city trash heap. At least it's still a little exclusive. Anyway, my positivity was rewarded, and I quickly fit in. There were the same cliques you might have expected from any high school. Not the 80's style of course, because this isn't The Breakfast Club, but there was definitely a popularity totem pole. And I naturally fit in right at the top. When I got there, there was one girl. Clarice Morgan (Yes, of those Morgans). She was the head *****. Fit the role perfectly because she was pretty, rich, could fake being smart and cultured when it suited her, and was very...social. If you get my meaning. So she tried to drag me into her little gaggle of bitches as some sort of GBF. Little did she know I had no intention of playing the role of sidekick to a pair of tits on heels. It took me little more than a month to take all of her friends. And then she had a choice. Accept her place or become the outcast I could make her.

She chose wisely.

So six months went by and I mostly ignored my cousins and my aunt when I could. I would get up before the rest of them, and enjoy a coffee on my way to school. Then I would pretend they didn't exist for eight hours until the last bell, at which point I usually got a ride to one of my friend's houses. I didn't usually get home until between ten and midnight, which meant I didn't have to deal with the squalling of Olivia's youngest, and I didn't have to acknowledge the other boy who slept in my room. I barely saw my parents those days except for on the weekends, and they were fine with that as much as I was. I was growing up, and I didn't have the time to let them pretend they cared about my days. The novelty of having a kid had worn thin after I hit puberty and mommy caught me wanking the first time. So we lived our lives separately. And it would have remained that way if not for Grant.

Grant Matthews was attractive in that old fashioned way. Strong jaw. Butt on his chin. Eyes so blue they made the sky jealous. He dated my cousin Angela (the oldest two of Olivia's were twins, so Angela got her own bedroom because she had a vagina or something). Anyway, so Grant got really into Angela. Or I should say, Angela let Grant get really into her pants. Naturally rumors began to spread that she was a little slut, and she was easy, and she'd give a handjob to any guy who so much as looked at her. Because high school is full of nauseating little bitches. Things got worse and worse over the weeks after she put out. It got to the point where she was getting dick pics daily, and shitty little texts. I was in class once when Angela tried to get a hall pass and a teacher looked her dead in the eye and said 'Sorry, but I'm not having some kind of scandal on my hands, you'll have to hold it.' So Angela held it. And that was the moment things changed for me.

So after class, during the lunch hour, I went right up to Grant. Everyone was there, because seniors weren't allowed to leave campus, and the school was small enough for there to be one lunch hour. Efficiency, they called it. Anyway, he was playing catch when I rolled up in my black Versace hi tops. He had just caught a football when I hooked my fingers in his jeans and yanked. I looked down. I tsked. 'Darling, when Angela told me you were hung like a Smurf, I was hoping she meant your dick was blue. I guess not.' And then I turned around, and I walked over to Angel. I threw an arm around her. She had been sitting alone. Everyone was watching by that point. I put my shades on her so that nobody could see the way she started to cry. And from that point on, Grant's good looks couldn't make up for his weak little pencil dick. And the **** about Angela stopped. She even joined my little exclusive group of friends.

Because even if I don't care about them. Even if I want to avoid them. Even if they give me headaches. Even if I could throw half of them into a pit and not feel an ounce of remorse. Well. My family belongs to me. They reflect on me. And if you decide to start ****. Well daaaaarling, I will end it.

Posted: **11 Apr 2016, 14:22**

I I I . c l a v i c l e

I don't think I ever said why Olivia and her children left did I? That's a story all on its own, and it began the day I made Grant the literal laughing stock of my high school. He had been a year ahead of me at the time, and engaged in enough sport activities to have gained moderate popularity. He wasn't terribly bright (I know, stereotypes disappoint me too), but his family had a lot of cash, and the school was willing to overlook his less than favorable test scores because the Matthews name was all over everything. They donated enough cash to the school each semester to float a third world country for a century. And in some cases, Grant bought the affection of people who were particularly stubborn about liking him. He gave gifts and invited them on vacations. The problem? No objective. No aim. He just wanted to be liked. And I was happy to let him have that until he stepped over the wrong line.

Because he had money, but I have old money. He had popularity, but I was the center of the ******* school. You know the problem with trying to flex your power against someone better than you? It only works if they don't crush you. And I had very little patience for his games. He soon fell out of favor. Nobody would touch him, because they didn't want to risk pissing me off. Not that I would have cared. In retrospect, I probably should have extended him an olive branch, but I was younger then. I didn't really see how much his world was crumbling. So I will own up to that mistake. I should have reached out to him. I should have been willing to let him have a little taste of what he'd had before. If I had, things probably would have turned out differently. Instead, I completely cut him out. He became painfully isolated. His teammates wouldn't even talk to him because boys think with their cocks, and if I told one of the girls in my class not to touch a certain guy? Well. Let's just say that any chance of him getting laid before college dried up immediately.

This went on for close to a year? I was a sophomore and he was a junior when **** hit the fan. It was Valentine's Day and everyone was getting carnations in different colors. Each flower represented something different, like a yellow one might have meant 'friendship' or something stupid like that. The more flowers someone had on their shirt, the more popular they were. Of course I couldn't be bothered with all of that. No way in hell I was going to let them put holes in my Gucci double breasted, mid-hip length, cobalt blue pea coat. Frida Gianni was a close friend of the family and she had it designed specifically for me. When in doubt, always haute couture. Anyway, the gunfire started right after first period, between classes. There was a silent alarm then, as teachers began to corral students deeper into classrooms with lights turned off. They were looking for silence.

I might have acquiesced if not for a disturbing text from Angela. Help. That was it. The entire text. Well I knew her schedule well enough that I was able to extricate myself from the class and get out onto the dark, barren halls. It honestly hadn't occurred to me that the gun shots had come from the direction of her classes. objectively, I should have been terrified. Maybe I was in some sort of shock. I began to pass fresh corpses. Many of them had multiple gun wounds to the chest. I might have remarked that the person who did the firing wasn't a great aim. They seemed to require several shots just to hit anything vital. I felt this sense of dread building like a block of ice sinking like lead from my chest into my stomach. I felt sick. The smell was overwhelming. Not the rot of the long dead, but the fresh spill of guts and **** into the open air. I stepped around and over. I was on a mission, and I wasn't about to let something like revulsion get the better of me.

I am the master of my own destiny. Of my own body. Of my own mind. **** your clichés. I continued until one face amongst the rest jumped out at me. Angela. She was still twitching. Her breath was labored. I don't know what came over me but I was on my knees in a second. I drew her close, pressed against my beautiful pea coat. She bled onto it, but I had forgotten about that. Maybe it really was a sense of shock. She felt so light in my arms, and she couldn't articulate anything. She kept trying to tell me something though. Kept trying and trying, but no words came out. She was too far past that. So I soothed her with my fingers in her scalp. And I whispered things softly into her ear. I told her how beautiful she was, and how everything would be okay. I knew it wouldn't be okay. I felt her slipping away and I waited until she was totally still with death before I said a quiet prayer over her. Not something from the Abrahamic faiths. Not something religious, but something from the only religion that had ever mattered. Family. The words were in German. When I was done, I let my fingers pass over her glassy eyes to close them and then I was up on my feet.

I moved without thinking. My pea coat was soaked through with blood and I marched down the hall with a sense of determination swelling in my chest. Gone was that gross feeling of sickness. Gone was the ice in my gut. I knew what had to be done as I slid into the fencing studio where I grabbed the nearest metal trashcan and brought it down full force on the padlock keeping me from the real swords. I hammered away at it until there was a click. Then I discarded the can and lock, grabbing one long, slender blade. Then I was moving again, looking for the one who had taken a member of my family. I wasn't even thinking. Later. Terms like 'temporary insanity', were thrown around. I don't really know or care about the justification needed for the 'law'. That's something the family legal council takes care of.

I found him pacing back and forth in the gymnasium. Normally we would have gathered for a pep rally. Maybe he was hopeful that would still happen. I don't know. I don't pretend to understand the chronically stupid. So I watched and waited for him. He moved in a circular, circuitous way around the room. Maybe he was waiting for the cops to show up. Maybe he'd given up. I waited until he was passing this place I had tucked myself behind some folded bleachers. His back was turned to me as I rapidly approached. I was screaming and didn't realize it until heard it. He did too because he whipped around. It was Grant. Didn't I mention that before? Oh well. It was him, and he looked surprised, eyes widening. My blade went right through his shoulder and all of the way through the other side. I slammed into him with enough force that the gun dropped to the ground. I kicked it away and my hand flashed in front of me to deliver a firm jab right to his throat. Height difference. I was going for the eye, I swear. Wink.

His hands reached for his neck and I grabbed him by his firm biceps, my entire lower body moving into a swing that left my knee crashing against his groin with enough force that I thought he was going to lift up off his feet. His eyes bugged even more and he fell to the ground. The blade of the sword bent the wrong way, making it slide out from under him, the hilt going the opposite direction. There was a crunch. I think it dislocated his shoulder. Whatever the case, that one arm suddenly went completely useless. My hands wrapped around his throat, not tight. Not yet. I looked down into his eyes. My normally slicked back hair fell into my eyes, a veil of silver and platinum. I didn't realize there were tears in my eyes until they stung my cheeks with their heat against the otherwise cold of the air. I was panting and my heart hammered in my chest. I was still screaming. The same thing over and over again.

"DO YOU KNOW WHOSE BLOOD IS ON MY COAT? DO YOU ******* KNOW, YOU RETARDED, SELFISH LITTLE CHILD? DO YOU KNOW, YOU WORTHLESS, WEAK-MINDED, LITTLE PIECE OF HUMAN EXCREMENT? DO YOU KNOW?"

Over and over again. Like fresh thunder to the ears. He tried to gurgle out an answer. It sounded like 'I don't know'. But I wasn't even listening. My thumbs pressed into the part of his throat I had punched. They pushed down as his hand twisted in my coat, trying to get me to stop. I could feel blood soak into me. I could feel the tears going cold. I told him it was my blood. I told him that at the top of my lungs. I told him over and over again. I told him that he had taken away part of me. I told him that he didn't deserve to live. I told him that he was like a nasty little mongrel dog who bit its master. I talked until I was hoarse. By then, he had been still for a half hour. I went and got his gun. I shot. I kept shooting until he didn't have a head anymore.

Olivia didn't stay after that. She moved away before all the legal stuff was even sorted out. She took part of me with her.

Posted: **12 Apr 2016, 14:28**

I V . r i b c a g e

Let's talk about fear for a moment. There is a phenomenon in the modern world, in developed nations where people do crazy, ludicrous things and call it courage. I'm sure you've seen shows or movies like jackass. Candid camera. People traipsing through life with all of the carelessness Fitzgerald was talking about when he wrote Gatsby. Because these people live in an era when medical treatment is such that a broken bone or infection is not necessarily lethal, when food is readily available, they throw caution to the wind. They are not to be commended, not to be lauded for their foolishness. There is no art in self-deprecation, but there is also no art in self-mutilation. It's all very self-aggrandizing, smells of grandiose delusion. Indulgent. Entitled. These are children who never quite grew out of the stage in their life when they were constantly seeking the attention of adults and peers. Their rejection of social norms is not a political statement; it is nothing but a short lived attempt to snatch 15 minutes of fame. It's not 'badass' to throw one's self blindly into danger.

And yet many of the same terms I've used to describe this new wave of 'pranksters' could be applied to myself. Entitled. Indulgent. Don't let my smile fool you. I know exactly who I am. You want to know the difference? These people, the ones I have described, they play with fear like it's a game. They get down in the muck, and the gross earth. They strip themselves naked, and wander into the wilderness. They go on game shows and television programs. They are the 'reality' stars of the 90s and 00s. These people are the lowest common denominator, who show people of the world that at their core, everyone is a rotten apple. Everyone is the same in their mediocrity. And because everyone is just another piece of trash in the great landfill of life, there don't have to be standards or rules. Ignoring completely that the legal system which protects them, the bureaucracy which gives them their benefits and regulates their rights, the medical system which heals them – all of those things are based on excellence. Competition. It's a delusion, a false world. Because reality TV isn't all that real. There are still people with cameras filming it all. Still a crew. Still sound equipment. Falsely generating the enfeebling message gives the masses the comforting notion that they can be weak. And it's okay to be weak.

Because everyone is weak.

But that's not true. And there you go, that's the difference between us. I might be unforgiving and unforgivable, but I know exactly who I am, and exactly my place in the world. At the top. Above the people who languish in the mud and dirt, like children. Besides, there is nothing noble about pretending not to be afraid of venomous spiders or snakes. You want to know how to quell those voices of doubt? Knowledge. There's a saying for that, you know. Knowledge is power. So when I see spiders crawling all over some man's face on television, don't be surprised if I can't 'get into it'. Most likely I've done my research and I know those 'dangerous creatures' are about as venomous as mosquitoes. So there's no real danger, and nothing to really fear. Smoke and mirrors. Bullshitters trying to feed lies to people. I won't cheer for someone who doesn't take a real risk, and I won't cheer for someone who takes a risk blindly. Yes. I realize that makes me a *****, but you wouldn't be the first person to call me that. Again. I know who I am.

So we have a Silence of the Lambs moment. Thanks for casting me as Hannibal. High powered perception. What do I fear? When I was eleven years old, I kissed a girl for the first time. It was on the cheek, of course. She told someone else, and they told someone else. I don't even remember her name. What I do remember is the way people would giggle behind their hands when I walked by, or how I would get odd looks when I went to take a seat in class. I was attending Ravencroft Academy at that point. The kids there were the cream of the crop, the children of foreign dignitaries, and government officials, of people with so much money they could buy nations. And yet even there, mediocrity crept in. They laughed at me because I took a chance, and the truth of the matter was that I had done nothing any of them wouldn't have loved to have done. I realized a few very important things one day as I sat at my desk, ramrod straight and watched the boys and girls across from me pointing and chittering away. One. I figured out that most people are dull, weak minded creatures. Two. I figured out that those who aren't dull and weak minded tend to go into the opposite extreme, and that's just as boring to me. Third. I began to understand that the only way to stand out is through control. Control of self. Control of other people. Control.

Finally, I learned what real weakness is. There are cliches about it. Emotion is weakness. Love is weakness. How many movies and television episodes have been scripted to fight those phrases, to teach children that love is to be enjoyed freely, that there is such thing as true love, love at first sight, and that romance can happen for anyone? See? The mediocrity lessons begin young. And by kissing that girl on her cheek, I signed myself over as just another one of the pack. I opened myself up to the scrutiny of people who should have been my equals. There's a saying. "Hearts are wild creatures, that's why our ribs are cages." And just like a wild creature, the heart can be tamed. A person who lets their dog go wild, humping and shitting its way through a neighborhood is a terrible owner. A dog owner who trains their dog? That is something to be applauded. So I stopped going along with trends. I set them. I stopped being part of the pack or herd or whatever you want to call humanity. I decided to be better. Let them run around like wild animals. Let them relish their weakness and their childishness, and their mediocrity.

They can be the sheep, and I will be a wolf. What's that about the world being a rat race? Everything is a competition. Don't let the liberal agenda fool you. Human nature is all about a pecking order. And that girl? Well she poked fun at me behind my back for a month. I think the running joke was 'Gregor should win worst kisser at school'. Or something like that. Then she fell out of the top of one of those pieces of playground equipment. Ravencroft was old. Had been built before the trend of buffering every danger a child could face with inches of cut up tires. She broke her arm when she landed. They found bruises on her arm and asked her if she had been pushed. She said no. The teasing ended. The giggling. The pointing. I was nice enough to sign her cast: "I guess you get the award for clumsiest girl at school! Haha! Get better soon. Love Gregor"

That was when the change began to happen. Before that incident, I was a child. After that point, I became more aware of myself, how I was presented to the world, my choices. So when you ask what my fears are, all I have to say is they're none of your ******* business.

Posted: **16 Apr 2016, 21:25**

V . i l i u m

I had both arms sticking out of the bath, ivory with golden claw feet, and the moon shone down on me through a window big enough to nearly take up the entire wall. Water dripped from my arm onto the elegant white and black marble tiles of the floor. In all directions there was evidence of my family's wealth. An antique vanity and mirror, a fireplace framed by fluted French columns. There were two exits on either side of the room, one into a closet big enough to fit two cars, and the other led into my bedroom. Most of one wall was dominated by a floor to ceiling mirror. A few scattered mahogany chest of drawers with patinated brass handles. In one hand, I held a letter written by my parents. The page had grown wet under my fingers. In the other hand was a cigarette, a vice I don't often indulge in. No. I'm the sort of guy who has to drink to get through his days, and when the going gets rough, a little Dalmore 62 is always the cure. However, the contents of the letter necessitated a certain stylistic change.

My head was tipped back, and shoulders barely broke the surface of the water. I rested against that cast iron like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I honestly hadn't thought much about attending any of the yearly family gatherings since the death of my mother and father. Attended, yes. But the magic of it fled for me when they died. The letter itself I had found in the pages of a first edition, 1891 Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. The simple notebook paper was carefully pressed between the pages, as if to bookmark "A Noiseless Patient Spider", my favorite poem since I was a young boy, and my mother would read to me from the very same book. The text was willed to me specifically, handed over by father's attorney. The only thing, on paper, I got from my parents, who were smart enough to give me access to all of the family's accounts in the event of their death. I was so shocked at the time, I'd thrown the thing onto the seat of the Bentley and didn't bother to look at it for a year.

And yet, here I was, in the bath, with their words scrawled across the page. I let out a rustling sigh as smoke poured up towards the ceiling, never quite making it, while it dispersed gradually into a wide column. Abelard Wenslydale made his way into the room, backing in, carrying a tray of soothing tea and a shotglass filled with what was probably whiskey. "Abe, what the **** are you doing here?" My voice lacked generosity, and the smoke had given it an unpleasant, vaguely gravely quality.

"Bringing you your tea, sir." He said. Before you think it, no he's not some old guy. This isn't a boy wonder fantasy, and he's no Alfred Pennyworth. He's honestly only a couple of years older than me with a mop of black hair that naturally tumbles to his shoulder in loose curls. He's got entirely too much scruff on his face, but he compromises by wearing appropriate attire whilst at work. He's been working for me for a few years. Really since I moved out on my own. My father suggested his services, though I haven't the slightest clue where he would have learned about him. Whatever the case, he's a hard worker, and has a keen gift for pulling me out of my melancholic pathos. Without even asking, he placed the tray on a convenient flat surface before removing his jacket. Folded over the back of the vanity's chair, he drew the seat across the floor to situate it behind the bath. I didn't have to guess what he was doing. Unbuttoning the cuffs of his white shirt. Rolling up his sleeves. Seconds later, I heard the snap of some bottle of shampoo opening and I finally acquiesced, slowly dragging myself up a little straighter, head still angled back so that when fingers began to massage into my scalp, I could leave my eyes closed.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir..." He began.

"I do mind, Abelard. If I were interested in therapy sessions, I would pay for them from someone with a degree in something other than ironing my underwear." My retort is one he's heard before, so even with the intentional venom, I know it won't be effective.

"You hired me for a lot more than that, sir. Not much work in ironing your undies. Already plenty flat if you ask me." He returned with ease that made a scowl bloom on my face.

"Just wash my hair." I said in a lower tone. And then it was time to slip under the water to escape the conversation and to let him work the suds out of my hair. His strong hands continued to massage until I couldn't hold my breath anymore, and then I resurfaced. Water flowed down over my features, and my vision became obscured by my hair. I still had the letter and cigarette in my hands. And blissfully, there was silence for a few more moments while he worked other chemicals carefully into the fine, silk light strands.

"I mark'd where on promontory, it stood isolated, mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding." He said.

"What?" That lone word sharp.

"From that poem your book was open to. I read it earlier." He replied. My jaw clenched.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" I finally asked.

"Nope." Came the answer. But that was always the answer. One day I'm going to have to fire or kill him. One day.

"They left me a letter telling me that I need to start thinking more about the family. Now that father is gone, I have a lot of responsibility on my shoulders. I need to start thinking about the big picture, and doing more for the von der Marck." There were also words of love. And praise. Both of his parents had given him their final sentiments in an elegant, somber fashion which went against the flamboyance which had been Gregor's entire life. Simple words. We love you, son. We are so proud of the man you have become. We want the best; we want everything for you. I had read over the words dozens of times before deciding I needed to take a bath. To feel like the world was being cleaned off of my flesh. Feel like I was weightless. Like they hadn't asked me to do the exact one thing I didn't want to do. I didn't want to care about family. THEY were my family, and look what they did. Went and got themselves killed. And where does that leave me? All that effort, and in the end, people always died as alone as when they had been born.

Minutes passed in silence, only to be broken by Abe's voice. "You know, some of us don't even have family, or parents. Some of us would look down on this little pity party you've got going for yourself and have a good chuckle. Oh here I am in my million dollar flat, and the roughest part of my life is I have to go and make nice with some cousins. WOE IS ME." He said. Had any of the other people under my employ said those words, they would have immediately been fired with such a scathing review of their work, they wouldn't find a job in New York. Possibly ever. And yet Abe was precisely right, wasn't he? And I hated it. So I half turned to look up into his eyes.

"Go clean something." The words were as restrained as I could manage. He left seconds later, but not before turning at the door, at the last moment.

"What are you going to do about that letter?" He asked, and that's when I realized it was still in my hand. Right in front of him, I took a deep drag from my cigarette to get the end cherry red.

"I'm going to do to it, what I do to everything that can hurt me." I said. And then I used the end of the cigarette to light the thing on fire. I held the letter up over the bath for a few moments before releasing to let it turn to ashes in the water.

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