The Hermit of Wales

All my long years I lived in fear of death, I loathed the idea that my life may come to an end before I wished it so. What I hated even more was the fact that I had no say in the matter of my own mortality. My life could end at any time and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. So I sat back, and watched the people of the world go by. Without a care, they waltzed through the endless corridors of life so short and laughed in the face of death. Oh how I hate them, those careless fools, fools, all of them. They put their lives, their most valuable possessions in the hand of fate. Oh cruel fate, how that wicked mother has tortured me so. In fates hands our lives are bound and the streams of our existence are twined about her fingers like the nests of vultures, who feed on our charnel remains long after our souls have been cast out of our fleeting earthly shells. I couldn't take it anymore, so I decided to give fate, a helping hand.

Behold, my most humble abode, what you see before you is my humble 17^th century Victorian home, in the foothills outside of Whales. My room of choice is the study, a quaint and curious place where I spend my time in my endless hunt for knowledge and burry myself in the lore this place provides me. Now cast your eyes to the room's high vaulted ceiling, ascending to a sharp point, like the steeple of a church, covered in a burgundy paint, its hue being warmed by the rich light from the roaring fire within my hearth. The walls are lined half the distance to the ceiling by great oaken book shelves, covered with a myriad of curious, dust covered tomes. Facing the blaze, with its back to the great oaken double doors is my great red leather armchair, sitting majestically atop the hard wood floor. Standing ever vigilantly beside it is an antique end table, its wood base spiraling up and fanning out into a great ebony disc containing a crystal glass filled a half of the way with a warm, natural golden brown liquid. Joining its partner on the table is a large crystal bottle of the same liquid. Beside this bottle is a small white vile, containing some unknown concoction. Now to the left of my chair and on the adjacent end of the table sits a similar, but not quite as grand leather chair. This opposing chair held host to the final guest of my home.

It was quite a rainy night some time ago; earlier that day I met a traveler in town as I made one of my less frequent trips to the market to acquire some of the valuables I usually have the Neanderthals I employ acquire for me. Not even midway through my trip I met an intriguing young man. He said he was a student at the university in London town, and was touring the country side to see some of the historic homes. I was well aware of the height and stature of my home among the rankings of Victorian dwellings, at least in this corner of the world. So I sat at a corner café table with this man and had a discussion of history, politics, and the classics, some of the usual subject matter I enjoy and will converse with a similarly educated person. Through time I have acquired a great ability to read into someone's character and discover truths about their nature that they may have defaulted to me through a mannerism or in some part of speech. Now, I knew right from the start that this man was one of, "them."  By "them," I mean the ones I despise, and target, oh how I hate them! In short, he lives his life without fear. .

Like I alluded to a moment ago, this man lives without fear of death, he simply does not care, and that nonchalance is utterly repulsive! He said his name was Blake Wellington, and hails from Normandy. You would not believe the stories he told me, skiing down the Swiss Alps, scaling the side of Vesuvius, even sky diving over the French country side, dear God! It has been quite a time since I've met someone with which hatred for immediately exuded, but, I have been doing this for many years and was able to remain calm and collected. I continued to make civil, yet pensive conversation with Blake, and hid my hatred for him under an impregnable mask.

Conversation droned on laboriously for another hour or so until the sky let out a hellish roar and let loose the rain. He peered around, watching the common folk scurry about, attempting to remain dry and protect their valuables and then turned his gaze back to me.

"I should probably head back to the University, it's getting quite late and this drizzle should pass soon enough," he stood and extended his hand to me, "It's been a pleasure." I eyed him steadily, not clasping his hand, and then turned away.

"Nonsense, you will visit my home while you wait, from the looks of it, Odin won't be finishing his hunt any time soon. I'm sure you will enjoy the history and architecture of my home." I spoke this over my shoulder and grinned at him as I began to walk away. Surely enough, Blake was soon walking by my side up the road and conversing with me about the styling of old Victorians, idiot.

Moments later I pushed open the door to my study and offered him in. Blake let out a low whistle and paced slowly over towards the blazing hearth, hands clasped behind his back marveling at the room. I strode stately past him and took a seat in my great leather throne and offered him its counterpart. He took his seat eagerly enough, still eyeing the room and rubbing his dirty little hands up and down my antique leather chair.

I smiled at him and offered, "Brandy? It's nearly as old as the mansion." I smiled and eyed him as he let out a polite chuckle and nodded in agreement. With quick and subtle hands I fixed him a glass and myself another. He gave me thanks and drank from his glass, then swirled the contents and mused at its appearance.

"I'm sure the University life has taught you to put that stuff away," I joked and continued to smile at him. He laughed and replied,

 "Too right, but nothing I've ever had at the University is of this quality." He made a toasting gesture with his glass, which I gladly returned and smiled. He drew another sip from the glass and then put it down almost exactly where the curious while vile had been not too long ago. I smiled at this quaint fact, sat back and folded my arms quite satisfied. The show would soon begin.

Blake Wellington, the interesting specimen that he is, managed to put down a few more tastes of my brandy before he began to feel its side effects. Blake hastily set his drink down and clutched his throat, his eyes widened and he began to fervently massage his throat.

"Burns the belly on the way down doesn't it?" I asked and let out a genuine burst of laughter as I watched Blake squirm in his seat. He clutched his knees and leaned forward, he began to gag and heave. I laughed again as I watched this production. He looked up at me, his eyes were wide and bloodshot, filled with anger and confusion, but those eyes, his eyes were missing something.

I clenched my fist, and scratched at the leather on the arm rest while doing so, and leaned forward.

"What's wrong Blake?" I taunted, "Can't you handle you're poison?" He swung his arm out, knocking over the remnants of his glass, the antique crystal breaking as it hit the floor and soon after Blake hit the floor. He squirmed and twitched, he clutched his stomach and chest. He doubled over and began to heave, making disgusting guttural noises. I followed him calmly with my eyes, my vision slowly panning across to watch him as he dies. Blake looked up at me again; eyes bloodshot, confused, and furious, but they were still missing something. They were missing the fear that accompanied the eyes of every pathetic victim before him. The worst defecated in their pants, nearly all of them screamed and cried for help, but all of them looked up at me with a terrible fear in their eyes. All of them but Blake, when he looked upon my eyes, he met my stare with acceptance of his incoming death.

I fired up from my seat and grabbed his shirt and yanked him closer to me, "What's wrong with you!" I raged at him, "You're going to die! Don't you understand that you idiot?" Blake began to convulse, but through the convulsions he looked up at me and smiled.

"We all go someday, why not today..." he uttered weakly. I stood there clenching his shirt and looking into the hearth in disbelief. The dead weight of his corpse sank to the floor and lay there. The final expression on his face was one of content and peace. I could hardly stand to look at it.

"No," I muttered, "No. No. No, it didn't work." I released his shirt and sank back into my chair. I began to shake rapidly and shook my head in disbelief. I muttered to myself for hours on end in complete and utter disbelief. I sat there in my chair, staring into a dying fire which now played impromptu head stone to a young man, whom I murdered in cold blood. The reality of it, I don't think, will ever fully sink in.

 I was not interrupted in my silent, insane, meditation until one of the maids walked in and uttered a scream upon seeing Blake Wellington's corpse. Shortly after Police and medics funneled into my study. The medics covered Blake and the police took me away. As I was escorted out of my own home, I stared over my shoulder at Blake's body, and looked forward to the possibility of my death sentence. I hoped that I would soon depart this sad, disgusting world, which I wasted away in, killing innocent youths, as a way of coping with my phobia of death. Never once in my life did I look so longingly at the prospect of my death, I couldn't wait for the darkness of death to veil my eyes, and take me from this mortal coil.

My name is Lord Emerson Pembrook, and it has been 6 long years from that day. I now sit and rot in the asylum and spend my days haunted by all of the faces of those I poisoned and killed. Oh won't death make haste, and take me in its clutch, fold its wings around my head and grant me the darkness I am due.

 

by Rufo7725 (Viewed 222 times)

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