Malice
By Linneria
The boy lounged in the ebony armchair, pale skin contrasting sharply with the black wood. The size of the chair further emphasized his small frame. He wore a sublime expression on his pale face, one hand draped over the armrest, the other combing through his fine hair. There was a knock on the door. He lifted his gaze. As the door opened, he let his eyes drift lazily towards the person's face. It was his father.
"What is it, Father?" he asked softly. Voice like faeries whispering, like silver chimes. The man stood at the door, not moving. There was anger in his eyes. But the anger did not mask the coldness of his frigid face.
"Tell me, what did you tell them." His voice was harsh, like a whip cracking through a still summer night. The boy's countenance did not betray him. He kept his face a passive mask.
"Tell who?" he asked softly, blinking, a look of feigned innocence.
At this, the man lifted his arm and delivered a forceful blow upon the boy's face. The boy remained still even though his cheek stung with pain. A red mark started to form where skin had contacted skin.
"Why the need for violence, Father? I do not know what you are talking about."
"What have you been telling. telling those friends of mine?"
"Friends? Father? Friends or minions? People too afraid of you to defy you?" The boy's voice was trembling. With rage. His first sign of emotion. "What I have told them is none of your business. If that wrecks your reputation," he placed emphasis on the word, "Then, my purpose has been served."
The man stared at his son, momentarily incapable of speech. The boy thought. Eleven years. Eleven years of torture. You never treated me as your son. Only a possession. Something to call your heir. Something to show off to your elitist "friends". The man reached out and grabbed his son by his hair. Hair almost too fine to be human hair.
"Say that again," he snarled.
"Why should I? Unless, Father, you are getting old and becoming deaf? We have ears to listen. And so do the walls." His voice was barely a whisper, mingled within, the slightest hint of malice.
The father let go of his son, fuming. He stalked out of the room, slamming the door. The sound echoed through the room.
The boy smiled, and sauntered over to the window. Outside, a thunderstorm raged, savaging the trees. A fork of lightning licked the vast canvas that was the sky, like a river and its tributaries. A clap of thunder followed. The boy stared ahead. He saw a small boy weeping in the corner of his room, too afraid to sleep. He saw the boy's mother, pained. He saw the boy in school, too afraid to be himself, afraid, for his father had "spies".
He did not realise the tears forming in his own eyes. He started to scream, scream at the man he so hated. He screamed until there was nothing left to scream about. He collapsed on the floor, out of breath. He threw his hands out to steady himself. Breath was still coming in gasps, and his heart was thumping against his chest. When he had calmed himself, he stood up and went back to his chair. A plan formed in his mind. An eye for an eye. It's payback time, Father. He smiled, a smile dripping with malice.
The boy lounged in the ebony armchair, pale skin contrasting sharply with the black wood. The size of the chair further emphasized his small frame. He wore a sublime expression on his pale face, one hand draped over the armrest, the other combing through his fine hair. There was a knock on the door. He lifted his gaze. As the door opened, he let his eyes drift lazily towards the person's face. It was his father.
"What is it, Father?" he asked softly. Voice like faeries whispering, like silver chimes. The man stood at the door, not moving. There was anger in his eyes. But the anger did not mask the coldness of his frigid face.
"Tell me, what did you tell them." His voice was harsh, like a whip cracking through a still summer night. The boy's countenance did not betray him. He kept his face a passive mask.
"Tell who?" he asked softly, blinking, a look of feigned innocence.
At this, the man lifted his arm and delivered a forceful blow upon the boy's face. The boy remained still even though his cheek stung with pain. A red mark started to form where skin had contacted skin.
"Why the need for violence, Father? I do not know what you are talking about."
"What have you been telling. telling those friends of mine?"
"Friends? Father? Friends or minions? People too afraid of you to defy you?" The boy's voice was trembling. With rage. His first sign of emotion. "What I have told them is none of your business. If that wrecks your reputation," he placed emphasis on the word, "Then, my purpose has been served."
The man stared at his son, momentarily incapable of speech. The boy thought. Eleven years. Eleven years of torture. You never treated me as your son. Only a possession. Something to call your heir. Something to show off to your elitist "friends". The man reached out and grabbed his son by his hair. Hair almost too fine to be human hair.
"Say that again," he snarled.
"Why should I? Unless, Father, you are getting old and becoming deaf? We have ears to listen. And so do the walls." His voice was barely a whisper, mingled within, the slightest hint of malice.
The father let go of his son, fuming. He stalked out of the room, slamming the door. The sound echoed through the room.
The boy smiled, and sauntered over to the window. Outside, a thunderstorm raged, savaging the trees. A fork of lightning licked the vast canvas that was the sky, like a river and its tributaries. A clap of thunder followed. The boy stared ahead. He saw a small boy weeping in the corner of his room, too afraid to sleep. He saw the boy's mother, pained. He saw the boy in school, too afraid to be himself, afraid, for his father had "spies".
He did not realise the tears forming in his own eyes. He started to scream, scream at the man he so hated. He screamed until there was nothing left to scream about. He collapsed on the floor, out of breath. He threw his hands out to steady himself. Breath was still coming in gasps, and his heart was thumping against his chest. When he had calmed himself, he stood up and went back to his chair. A plan formed in his mind. An eye for an eye. It's payback time, Father. He smiled, a smile dripping with malice.