I Kill Me: Of the Ill Reputation of the Earl of Malmacshire
It was a dark and stormy night and Gordon Shumway, Earl of Melmacshire, wondered through the irregular light brought with the lightning, whether the engorged drops on the window were from the deluge outside ... or the deluge the sad, sad salt tears cascading down his totally gnarly fur.
Maybe it was better not to look, thought Shumway, and question how deeply all of ... this ... unsettled him. These heart-shaped claws, tearing totally lovingly at his Alftastic heart. With a whisper barely audible on a clear night, Shumway breathed out a facetious, "ha", echoing its fog silhouette on the clear windowpane. On the intake, Shumway, tried to breathe into himself some emotional state that would not sadden him so. The first strike of white thunder illuminated him with incomplete respite. For a second – he had learned to think in terrestrial measurements of time – it showed him the fruits of vast grounds of his veranda, soaking with heavenly tears that nourished his lush green estate. But Shumway's heart was hollow and the weight of this poverty felt heavier than any hollowness should.
If he were to be honest with himself Shumway was thankful for the lightning. His robot servant, VIKI, was ... away ... and would not return until the next day. Books held no appetite for him and it was too late at night and still to treacherous for him to call on any of his gaunt, few friendships. His mansion always felt large, and cold, with footsteps echoing through the colonnades of doorways, but now the only sound was of the shifting of those paw-feet things he had. Shumway's memoirs were always there to finish – but for the past three days his hand stammered every time he tried to write. He could think of nothing to do at all – and given his emotional state, Shumway contemplated the danger that enveloped him, knowing what was transpiring in the next earldom of Mypos.
The lightning crackled again, each stroke distancing itself from the last. Shumway continued to scan the periodic distance for any sign of her unlikely, early return. The thunderstrokes became quieter, Shumway's alien heart grew louder. He would do it. There was nothing he wanted in his life more – not even a mountain of cats.
The minutes blurred as Shumway's clear thoughts guided him to do what he knew he had to do: he bypassed the black sludge lying on the floor from today's earlier mishaps, put on the multicolored shirt his friend Caliban from the Bermoothes had presented him with years ago. With a marriage of thought and action he shut the heavy door of Alfwick behind him.
It was only when he once again paused for a moment to consider how unscrupulous, how ribald, how uncouth he was acting did Shumway realize this was the first time in decades he had left the house.
The dark air, pregnant with Midlands fog, wafted through his snout. Curiously to the emptiness, he spoke as a trickle, trying to galvanize himself with the knowledge that acting on his love was blooming a wilted purpose until mere minutes ago:
"I …
I kill me."