I, now fifteen, had grown sullen and cold from my childhood trauma. I was sent to a private academy for my education, so at least I was away from Corvair, but that didn't make things any better for me. They made them fairly similar, yet the abuse was different. I was beaten often for insolence by the teachers and had been assaulted at least once by my roommate, whom I'd managed to fend off with a swift knee to the family jewels I was very proud of that, especially since the offending ruffian didn't walk for a week afterwards, I had been most vicious, biting, kicking, scratching and eventually beating his attacker about the knees with a curtain rod, anything to avoid being assaulted again.
Most of the time, I spent my days curled up in bed hugging my knees to my chest, but sometimes, when I had to go to class, I would spend it writing ways I would get revenge on Corvair in a tiny notebook. I now knew what was done to me was wrong, and I wanted revenge. You see, I had met a few people. A two close friends and a few kind teachers who told me what had happened shouldn't have. With that knowledge, I was poised for attack when he returned home that Christmas break.
The tree was up when I returned home and so was Corvair's alcohol level. I knew what that meant. I'd be the present under Corvair's tree. However, this time, I had a little surprise for Corvair. Strapped to my thigh was a kitchen knife incase my first plan didn't work. My first plan, I reasoned, ought to take affect right after dinner. I crept into the kitchen like a clever little mouse and took out a flask of white powder. I popped off the cap and tipped it ever so gently into Corvair's drink. "Arsenic is good and quick, a truly wondrous little trick." I chuckled to myself, I never liked rhymes, but I was good at them when I wanted to be.
Then slowly, slowly enough that Corvair couldn't hear me, I snuck back into the drawing room where Corvair was asleep in his chair. "Father, is it supper time soon? I'm a bit hungry and we do have a long night ahead of us." I grinned wickedly. 'Long night…Ha! He'll be dead before he can get his prick hard.' I laughed to myself quietly.
Dinner went pleasantly enough…until Corvair began looking ill. "Oh father! Are you alright?" I asked, perfectly feigning concern. Corvair began to nod, but it was interrupted by a burst of yellow-green vomit streaked with red onto the floor. He couldn't stop, couldn't breathe. I was in heaven. But I had to feign concern still, so I bolted from the house, screaming "Help! Help! Oh! Somebody please! My father is dying! Please help!" One of Corvair's fellow officers ran into the house and knelt next to Corvair's now limp form, feeling for a pulse, the old constable announced that he was dead. I managed to feign tears as my "father" was taken from the house on a stretcher to be prepared for burial.
As I watched, when I realized I was alone, my mouth curled into a smile and I leapt for joy. I was free. No more humiliation or pain! No more torture! No more lying beneath someone three times my age and hoping it would stop. I was safe and nothing could ever harm me again as far as I was concerned.
The house was bequeathed to me and became a place of splendor and amazing parties with the most influential people in London. That was where I met Gareth. Gareth Bigby, a man only a few years older than me and very fascinating. Gareth was mildly deformed around his face and people shunned him as a monster, however, he was always invited to my extravagant parties and was always the only person I would talk to…After I spent a little time with a lady of the night who never seemed to come back downstairs. Oddly, I never smelled of sex either. Gareth was the only one who was fairly certain of what was happening. No one else seemed to care or notice the odd occurrences, even when bodies were found outside the manor.
Certainly no one would really care if a few prostitutes went missing, Gareth had reasoned and besides, I was always kind to him and was very handsome.