Ignorance - a spider who lies

Mama was never really one for nursery rhymes, but then again, Papa was worse. Nana never came to visit and Grandpa died - yes died, (as Papa was told to be extremely frank with his children, who at time, subsequently took an interest in learning the art of post-mortem).

Papa always encouraged his boys to be at the best of their ability, Nana always insisted them to be the best at everything. As for mama, well, she was out of the picture ever since they learnt how to demand for skimmed bottled milk... And partially because since Nana had to move in after Grandpa died.

The boys never really took interest in house politics so their memories of childhood were somewhat limited to those that particularly stood out, which were close to none. Mainly, because, when the time calls for it, they will eventually be deleted from their minds, which they proclaim to be their hard drives.

Some men were born great, while others have greatness thrust upon them. It was a quote, their Papa told them, that dead Grandpa used to say. The boys knew if their Grandpa was ever Shakespeare, he wouldn't have died the way he did. He would have been stabbed through the heart by Nana - an image that was surprisingly quite easy to picture.

Nana, preparing his coffin handcrafted by herself in advance, her famous pie knife, all sharpened and glistening in the dim moonlight, her haggard back cracking as loud as the floorboards she makes her way to his bed. Her ugly shadow cast on every other end of the house - moving slower than a tortoise, and looking very much like a toad. Her faint croaking becoming louder and louder by the second... Or was that Grandpa's snoring? Maybe she was going to cut his tongue out and eat it. Just like she did to Mama who barely utters a word in her presence.

For a long time, Nana remained, the ultimate villain in the children's lives. She was the baddest of the bad. She was mastermind behind every misfortune. She was the Hitler of the House, with the family being the Germans, and Mama being the single Jew. At this point, one would feel sorry for Mama's constant discrimination but she deserved it, they felt, because she was different. She would be the only one who would cry during sad movies, kiss her children goodbye before school ( which they disliked tremendously), plant daisies because she just liked to.Mama's uncivilized upbringing was too much for Nana to handle, in fact, she whacked Papa with a broomstick relentlessly when she'd found out he had fallen in love with their neighbor's daughter - the little round girl who had the kindest of faces and the blackest of hair.

As time flew, Nana gained a willing accomplice. Unfortunately for the younger brother, his older sibling decided to move to the dark side after realizing his pathetic position in the household's social hierarchy. Being 7 years senior to his younger brother, the realization dawned to him after he realized he had already outranked Mama in the list. His quest for power was tireless. And in the end, their evident struggle of power began to come to a triumph close for the older boy.

Nana didn't die, said Papa. She passed away.

The children didn't seem completely satisfied with the answer as the thought of Nana not being completely dead, ran shivers down their spines. As confused as they were, they accepted her passing as a turn for the better. Better, meaning Mycroft, who was now a ripe age of 21 overthrew his weak father in his never ending quest for power ( a habit which probably earned him the 'minor position' in the government). Mama remained the same, however her tongue returned after the funeral.

Sherlock who had just entered his long dreaded pubescent years, stepped up from his previous rank as 'younger' brother to ( in the words of Mycroft) a worthy human being. At least, that's how he assumed since Mycroft stopped locking him in cupboards. Despite the fact that Sherlock had indeed considered himself worthy since the time he was born, he quickly remembered that a little while later after that, he had wanted to become a pirate, a memory which he knew, would forever lose an argument to Mycroft.

Nana's passing meant there were new rules in the house. Mama had made them clear whenever Mycroft was out for work. "It's like the daisies, are growing again. The rain has finally come down."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, why was it him who was stuck at home with this delusional woman whom he was forced to refer to as his 'mother'? Either way, if it were he, he would have cursed the blasted rain for not getting rid of the bloody spiders that rented the empty spaces in the house. It was incredibly distracting and a complete waste of limited human thinking space.

Those mindless creatures didn't deserve to exist. They were a disgrace of nature. Sherlock almost destroyed them...but then realized that the broomstick was downstairs in a cupboard under the sink. The remainder of limited thinking space in the room agreed to stay put and wait till it rained. It was better that way, for everyone. So Sherlock lounged in his seat, forcing his eyes back to the book in his hands. Despite his tremendous effort to look away,he could still make out the tiny black daddy long legs crawling happily in its corner. It was so... annoying.

Sherlock wanted to slap it. He blamed his legs for not moving to get the broom. Releasing a breath of frustration, he shut his book dramatically and lifted his long limbs ( quite similar to the ones on the spider) and made a move to stand up. Unbeknownst to him, was the coffee table that was inconveniently placed before him.

Seconds later, Sherlock lay tangled on the floor, amidst books dust coffee and his own legs. The spider gave a triumph smile. Sherlock could almost hear it chuckling in the corner. Dear God, that creature will be the death of me! In his ears, Sherlock heard the mindless laughter of the lone spider, hidden in the darkness. It grew louder and louder and louder.

Spiders were the least of Sherlock's concern in school. In fact, Sherlock was never a one for friends but then again, Mycroft was worse. And that fact itself brought down Sherlock's name before he even joined school. Although, it didn't really bother him that, what people thought. What mattered was what he thought. And whether it was right and logical. What mattered was what he spoke. That every single sentence he said however seldom to the people around him, was correctly pronounced, projected and perfect. That every single word he uttered, meant thousands more than it was heard to mean. And that no matter how many lies will never conceal the truth. For only a master liar can master the truth of other liars. And in world of humans, he was a master in his domain.

The deep laughter of the metaphorical spider in the corner of his wall never did die down. Even when there were no walls for it to occupy...

But Sherlock Holmes ignored it. For now.