The sneaky bastard goes for the same move. This time, his knee knocks the air from my lungs.Oh, thank God, not the fucking bollocks.
I ram my father into the dresser.
“Shite!” His back arches in pain, lungs quick to expire. Silas attempts to take a breath. My hands clutch his throat, squeezing his muscular neck. Silas’s face shakes as the arsehole forces his hands over my forearms, attempting to save himself. His bronzed cheeks puff out; spittle comes forth from his mouth. Slowly, I take him to the floor. My hands grip tighter.
Within my mind, death summons, enticing me to shove my father to the brink.Die. DIE.I want him to fucking die.
When I was thirteen, I realized the more my cousins had children, the more my father hated me. Silas was the sixth child of the Queen. A slew of older siblings fell in the line of succession before him. I, being the eldest son, must have been a snuff to my father. I didn’t even know it was envy until then because I was so used to preparing my stance, my face for a hit. Yet, I started to notice Father’s anger would be even greater, blows much harder, after visits with Grandmother.
The Queen had no favorites. She loved us all. But Silas had made everyone’s life a misery. He acted as if he’d taken too many thrashings as a child.No, he did not. He had no scars. I did.
“Look at you,” Silas began, wrenching his double-breasted jacket off.
My chin jutted up, chest puffed out and ready. We’d all just attended an event at Buckingham Palace. All my father’s oldest brothers had begun to learn to disregard me. At first, they’d tried to be that life source a father is to his son, knowing that Silas was not. They soon discerned that advocating for my well-being was equivalent to my father abusing me further. Their love brought about his pain.
“Silas, I’m sure two of your whores are already waiting in the North Wing. Why not attend to them?” Mary mocked as she came in with a toddling Graham in tow.
Dad had already overdone himself with the drinks, so his drunken eyes landed upon her. “Bollocks! The pretty princess has something to say?” he asked, snatching Graham’s hand from hers.
“St-stop!” she shouted, and the chubby toddler ran toward me as Dad advanced on her.
“You’re nothing without me, Mary, do you comprehend?” Silas asked, poking her forehead.
“I am Princess Mary, Duchess of Somerhaven.” She stood tall.
He placed a hand at her throat; she didn’t back down. “One day, you won’t be.”
“What are you saying, Silas?” My mother shouted, attempting to remove Silas’s hands from around her neck. “Have you no class?”
Without giving his wife a reply, Dad’s hands began to tighten. Mum had never saved me, but that wouldn’t stop me from advancing on my father. This was my first time acting off pure aggression, heart filled with hate and strife. Becoming overcome with emotion was the number one golden caveat Dad had always told me never to do.
“Oh, thefirstbornhas come to save his mother?” Dad turned away from her and laughed. “My whores love to have my hands about their pretty little necks.”
Mother ran toward Graham, and my knuckles connected with Silas’s cheek for the first time in my life.
Soon after that, I curled into a ball as he slugged me repeatedly. With each kick, each hit, Father taught me that emotion was for cunts.
“Victor, Victor . . .” Burt’s voice pulls me out of my head.
He must have closed the bedroom door upon entry. The maids are probably waiting. My hands release Silas’s neck. His body slumps down to the floor.
Burt’s eyes seem placated by the faint rise and fall of Silas’s chest. As I climb to my feet, Burt mumbles, “I do believe Silas needed the rest.”
“We're leaving for Arlingtonnow,” I reply in a calculating tone. My body is a rush of adrenaline. Satisfaction has permeated my entire being. Even in my haste, I’ve overtaken my father. My only regret is that so many years have passed since thirteen-year-old me made an attempt.
“I'll make preparations at once,” Burt responds, heading toward the door.
“As of an hour ago, you were retired?” I retort.
“I said until you were ready to return toyourhome, Victor.”
“Oh, yes, it was Arlington, or you’d be out of commission.” I glare at him.
It's been a while since reality swept me to an alternate universe, and madness fully consumed me. I was trained that emotion is never to be allowed. Ironically, with the commencement of my association with X-Member, I utilized the kill to feel emotion. There is a difference. In one instance, one kills as emotions rile them, threatening their ability to fight. Hence, myself at age thirteen and thenagaintoday. With X-Member, I felt nothing until the exact moment of my mark’s execution. I glare down at a man that means nothing to me—less than nothing—in this state.
26
Luxury