Chapter 1: No Matter What it took
Oswald's earliest memory was of his mother, which was entirely unsurprising since she raised him, but it was one memory that he vowed to maintain. And it was one that surprisingly struck him now, though the timing was a little odd.
Early in his life, his mother explained to him why they were living in a rundown cottage. She wanted him, above all else, to know that he was worth much more than working sinks, tailor-made clothes, servants, and an intact roof.
She told him in a quiet but definitive voice one night, what she gave up so that he would be safe.
"Oh Chessie, your mother never wanted to return to this drab life. But I tell you that I would make the same choice so that I could keep you." She said, looking through the distant window at the cold night while stroking his black hair.
"You see, I fell in love with a very powerful, and very rich man. But I was just barmaid, and he had just taken over his father's business. We met one night at the bar in which I worked, you know that old nightclub around the block. It was love at first sight. Many dates later, he decided to introduce me to his family. So after he begged me, I finally chose to accompany him to dinner with his parents. And like I had feared, they hated me and my lack of wealth. But they loved their son too much and let him marry me. I'd say I wish they hadn't but then I wouldn't have you my dear!"
Oswald always smiled at that part. He liked that she chose him. It made him feel the only love he'd ever allow himself to feel.
"Anyway we married and had you and- uh well we had you and you were such a delight. But your father started to change. He started to wail on me after work, then you would cry and he would throw a few clouts to your ears as well. And Chessie, him hitting me was one thing, but I didn't want him to hit you no more. So I left him without so much as a goodbye. Sure I miss the luxuries he provided, but I just love you too much. I'd rather live in poverty with you than in a mansion with him."
Again Oswald smiled. If he had a motive, it was to please her. If he had a weakness, it would be her. He intended to give his mother everything she deserved for her sacrifice no matter what it took.
No matter what it took, he reminded himself as he looked down at the table full of options.
Along the rough red runner on the mahogany table was a collection of various knives and carving devices, all sharp, clean, and ready for using.
Selecting a short knife, the dullest of the ones there from continued use, he walked over to his- well, he didn't want to say the word victim. That would imply the tied up man wasn't guilty, that he certainly did not deserve the torture he was soon to bear. Instead, he decided, the man was simply his captive. Captive to Oswald and captive to the mistake of groping Oswald's mother.
Remembering the captive's crime, Oswald's face twisted in rage and he gripped the knife more tightly. Slowly he walked over. Slowly he raised his weapon, and slowly he began to carve down the man's face. Oswald watched the blood trickle out the sinuous line, watched the man's face stiffen as he tried to be brave.
Oswald neared the delicate neck, and he realized he didn't want the man dead. No, he wanted the man alive, he wanted the man to suffer the agony of having an ugly scar and an ugly reputation. He wanted his captive to be free, so that the man could wallow in regret until he finally wouldn't be able to take it anymore. He would search his house for rope, knife, razor, or anything he could to end the misery. But on that day, all he would find was Oswald and a butter knife. And his only choice would be to end the misery by causing more.
And so Oswald ran the knife back through the same slit in the skin, and the man screamed in anguish.. screamed at the pain.
The screaming made Oswald laugh, his nostrils flared and his eyes wider, and the amusing joy of it all made him cut the other side, hard but still slow to make sure the most amount of pain was felt. He slashed across the forehead, went diagonally across his left eye, and the debacle was reminiscent of an expressionist painter, adding strokes here and there without so much as a thought.
The laugh echoed in the room, mingling with the scream, as the same thought echoed in his mind: no matter what it took.