It's in the Blood
Disclaimer:I do not own Tales of Graces f. All affiliated characters are property of Bandai-Namco. No copyright infringement is intended; no profit is being made.
Blood. It was blood.
It was blood…!
He pressed back into—a chair? A chair. He grasped at the cushion.
Two voices. There had been two voices, now there was only one… A scream, then one voice gone. What did that mean? He sobbed dryly, clutching the cushion tightly in one shaking hand.
He was not crying. He was too shocked to cry.
A loud bang. He jumped violently.
He shrank back further, all but crawling under the chair.
A groan.
The blood trickled closer.
A man crawled into view.
Blood. He was covered in blood.
The second voice appeared behind the man.
Another bang.
Darkness.
Richard Windor scrubbed frantically at his hands. The seventeen-year-old choked a soft sob, confusion riddling the features that stared back at him in the mirror. He scrubbed harder, frantic to get his hands clean. He didn't understand why they were dirty.
Why they were bloody.
He sobbed harder, tears trickling down his cheek to leave a ruddy trail in the coppery stain on his right cheek. He raised a hand, wiping at it. Blood flaked off, smearing across the back of his hand and leaving a trail of suds on his cheek. He wiped them away with the back of his torn sleeve.
A sound behind him made him jump like a doused cat, spinning in midair.
The door to the bathroom was still shut. Breathing heavily, he returned to scrubbing his hands clean.
Why were they bloody?!
Water splashed down the front of his shirt; there was blood on it. He tore it off, throwing it aside with a horrified, strangled cry. Blood. Blood, again, blood!
He stepped back from the sink. The faucet continued to hum, water gushing forth as he backed up, back thumping into the wall. His legs gave out and he sank to the floor on noodle-like limbs. Shoulders sagged and he bent forward, forehead hitting his knee.
And he cried.
"Where were you last night?"
The nineteen-year-old stood straight and defiant under his uncle's critical glare. He did not answer the question.
"Dammit, boy! Don't ignore me!" Cedric's lips were curled back in a furious scowl.
"I do not owe you an answer," Richard replied coolly, keeping his head up and purposely not looking at the man before him.
"You don't…" Cedric leapt to his feet. "Look, boy, I took you in, I raised you! You do owe me!"
"I am a legal adult, uncle. I do not."
"Bah!" Cedric threw his hands up. "You're more trouble than you're worth! Get out of my sight and pray I don't disinherit you."
"The thought is almost a relief." He turned and stalked away. He managed to duck through the doorway a split-second before he heard the shatter of expensive crystal hit where he had been standing a moment before. Taking a steadying breath, he turned and hurried away.
…the truth was, he had not answered his uncle because he did not remember where he had been.
The minister droned on. Richard sat quietly in the front, staring ahead but not seeing. At twenty-one, he was now the legal head of the Windor estate. Within the day, his uncle would be six feet under and no longer able to threaten and coerce him. He was dead, and that was that.
He did not care if they never caught the man's murderer.
Richard's head throbbed. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed at his temples. He had blacked out again last night. The instances had been getting worse since his uncle died three years before, but the doctors could not find any cause. They cautioned him about stress and told him to take it easy.
And, well, he was stressed. Taking over the estate meant taking over the family business.
Family business…that was one way of putting it.
His uncle had been a mafia boss, probably the most powerful in the city, and being head of the estate…meant taking over that. He was not cut out for it…and his enemies knew that. He lived every day terrified for his life. He had to seize control…or die.
But he hated the business. He had never killed anyone, but people had died because of him. He felt crushing guilt with each realisation of that fact.
But he did not want to die.
But he was not ruthless enough for this.
He slumped forward, head pounding as he rested it on his folded arms, blocking out the light. Not that there was a lot of that; he had shut off the light an hour ago, when the first twinges of the migraine had begun.
Why could life not be simple?
Hello, Friends! I hope you enjoyed the prologue! If you did (or even if you didn't), I'd love to hear from you! Thanks for reading! n.n