A/N: I hadn't planned on posting this for a while, but I had a long first couple of days of school. I need a pick-me-up.
The Son of Satan's Henchman
It's never nice being the guy everyone hates. You'd think I'd get used to it, but I never have. It is still like a jab in the gut every time I pass a coworker and they pretend not to notice me, or I give a suggestion and my boss sends me a glare.
They all think I've had it made. Okay, I'm not going to pretend I didn't grow up knowing I was going into the CIA. I did. What they don't know is that while I might have been guaranteed a position on the top floor, it wasn't because of my heritage.
I've heard the talk. I know people say I grew up with a silver spoon.
Try plastic.
I grew up in a fancy house with a white picket fence and a drunken mother. It wasn't easy going to school and listening to my classmates talk about their parents and threaten me with taunts about their fathers, when all I could do was say my father was a very important person. Eventually I stopped trying. Who would believe my father was a hero?
It might surprise you, but that kid on the playground? That was me. I know what it's like to get punched in the stomach and to have to curl into a ball to protect your privates from fat boys with daddy issues.
I grew up fast. On the rare occasions my mother was sober, she made me sit at the window for hours and answer nit-picky questions about the passing cars from memory. I learned to pay attention to the littlest things or face the palm of her hand. I used to like it when she drank because I knew she'd soon be unconscious.
By the time I was eleven, I could have been a black belt. If my father had spent the money it would take for me to go to classes. Of course, by that time my mother and I were in London and my father couldn't have cared less whether I could split a board with my face or not.
No he didn't care. He didn't care until I was twenty and I graduated from Cambridge. The moment my fingers grasped my diploma, he was in my ear, whispering about protecting my country and upholding the family name. I should have punched him in the jaw.
I pushed myself harder than any other trainee at the Farm. Not because of him, no I wouldn't let that adulterating son-of-a-bitch win, but because some part of me knew he wouldn't leave until I showed him I could replace him. He'd made it very clear that he wouldn't retire until I was well on my way to upholding the Wilcox name.
I wanted him out. The person that left the Farm was not the nerd that went in. I'd promised myself the moment I crossed the threshold that I would get him out.
What I didn't realize until much later was that he'd tricked me. He would only retire when he knew I would continue his quest. That meant I had to play ruthless.
At first it wasn't easy manipulating and using the skills drilled in by schoolyard bullies and a barely-sober mother, but if it meant that bastard would leave me alone for good, I was sure as hell going to do it.
Finally my plan worked and he left. The only flaw was that I'd worked so hard to get him out of my life, I'd become him. And what made it worse was that I'm not sure if that's necessarily a bad thing.
All I know is that it hurts to see my colleagues whisper behind my back.
But that's what you get for being the son of Satan's henchman.
A/N: I must confess, I have a great family-life, so I'm going out on a limb with this. I hope I managed the right emotion. Reviews are always appreciated.