With a cup of black coffee heated just hot enough to burn, I head into my library for some morning leisure time. I should find her a recipe book since she seems so inclined towards domestic activities. I wonder if she knows how to make blood soup; I definitely have all the ingredients for that in my house.
To my extreme annoyance, that British bastard is sitting in my chair. What is he doing here and why did my servants not follow my order? They were supposed to shoot on sight. Useless mongrels.
"Good morning, Len-pyon!" He chirps in an overly cheery voice dripping with falseness. No wonder he was banished from England.
"Go to the farthest depths of hell." I snarl. "And get off my chair."
He playfully sticks out his tongue, but slides off the seat. I gnash my teeth. Next time, I will make sure to sear away that rubbery pink tongue with a pair of hot tongs, medieval style. Then I remember his revelations a few days ago.
Those pictures. The locket. I want to know the truth. How does he have them?
"What did you do to my sister?" I demand.
He smiles. "I didn't do anything. She came to me on her own, running into my arms. To get away from her psychopath of a brother."
Within seconds, I yank the collar of his shirt and let my nails dig into his skin a bit. The glee dancing in his irises falter almost unnoticeably.
"Liar." I spit.
The muscles around his eyebrow twitch and his jaw firmly sets. "You don't think it's possible? A boy goes insane and murders his equally messed up father. To get away, she fakes her death and finds shelter in the only person she has left. Me."
The only person she has left? Bullshit. She loved me. I saved her from that man. I did what was necessary. My father was schizophrenic, bipolar, manic depressive, and never took his medications. He would have killed us all in a frenzy if I hadn't stopped him.
Bastard. I raise the cup and splash searing hot coffee over his upper body.
He yelps and breaks from my grip, clutching at his reddening skin. The murky liquid streams down his pores, leaving blisters in its path. The crisp whiteness of his button-down shirt darkens and wetly clings to his skin, scorching his chest. His flesh bubbled and peeled, becoming more inflamed as he clawed at it.
I gaze at his spasmodic fits of pain. An indescribable sense of elatedness floats in my head. I've really missed the joys of torture. His features contort in a myriad of violent emotions, none of which quite fit the situation.
I subconsciously ruffle his feathery hair with my fingers, as though my muscles were jolted into a familiar action. "It seems I have finally found someone as crazy as I am."
At this gesture, rage mars his expression and he slams into me, knocking us to the ground. "Don't you dare compare us, you demon."
Interesting. This brat seems to need a mirror.
I take a few breaths to calm myself. I can't kill this shrimp. Not yet, at least. Not until I have her location and confirm that she's even alive or with him. For now, I'll restrain my desires for her sake.
"Why are you here?" I growl.
The anger on his face slowly morphs into a twisted, ravenous smile. "To see Rin-nee. I bet she's eagerly awaiting her adorable white knight, here to save her from the beast."
Seriously, what is wrong with this person? Just a stupid flea jumping around me. Every time I glance at him, a spark of resentment ignites in my chest. What are his motives for doing all of this?
He leans over and brushes my ear with his lips. I'm about to recoil in digust.
"You're my rival, Len-pyon. I will be sure to claim victory over you." He whispers.
Rival? I can only consider those of equal status as my rival. With a flick of my elbow, I shove him away.
He touches his lips with his fingers, coyly grinning at me before darting away.
Is he going to pounce on my doll? Quite some nerve he's got, attempting to defy me in my own house. I prepare to go after him with a bat when something catches my eye.
A slip of paper folded a few times rests on the carpet. It must have fallen out of his pocket. The paper is wrinkled and frayed at the edges, at least a few years old based on its appearance. Did he leave it here on purpose, or is he actually stupid?
I finger it and bring it up to my eye. Should I go ahead and see what's written in it, or chase the brat and keep him away from her? Obviously, I choose the latter.
I stick the paper in my jacket and pull myself off the ground. My hand closes around the cold brass handle and I fling open the mahogany door. To my surprise, she is standing there alone with a British pest in sight. Did he do something to her? How long was she standing there?
"What did he do to you?" I demand.
She ignores my question and asks, "Why am I here?"
What? Is she sleep-walking or amnesiac? "What do you-"
"Just what am I to you?" She continues. "Who do you see when you look at me?"
Who? I see…her. I see my precious treasure, my doll, lover. "Is something wrong?" I wonder.
"I know about your past, Len!" Her hands curl up into fists and a stormy expression crosses her face.
Everything? Who told her? How much does she know?
"I know about your crazy dad and how your mom left and how your sister died, or so you thought. I know about your relationship with Oliver-kun, what you did to him. What you did to everyone. Oliver-kun told me everything. Everything that I'd hoped you would tell me. Maybe not all at once, but at least something." She rambles.
Is that what she is mad about? "I apologize for not telling you sooner. It's just…I'm not even completely sure of it all."
Her brow wrinkles. "Huh?"
"Look, I lost parts of my memory after killing my father. I guess it was the shock and trauma. I don't know how Oliver and I are related or huge chunks of my childhood. Things come back to me in flashes, usually when there is a trigger. All I have left is anger and blood lust." I reveal.
Her tone softens. "You mistook me for your sister the other day when you were sick. I can't blame you since you were so delirious, but it's obvious what you think of me. We're really similar, Lenka and I, aren't we?"
Lenka? "Is that her name?" I murmur.
Pity enters her eyes and she goes to me, enveloping me in a warm hug. "You're not a bad person, Len. Just very messed up. You need help. You need to sort out your past and move on."
"What are you doing?" I choke out.
She pulls away and strokes my cheek. I hurriedly grab her hand and keep it there, not willing to let go of her touch. A bad feeling settles in my gut.
"Leaving. You don't love me; you love what I remind you of and give to you. But you shouldn't be stuck in the past like this. You're smart and talented and have a future. Resolve your issues and go forward." She urges.
That's ridiculous. Of course I love her. I love…her.
"No!" I cry.
But she leaves.
Where is she going? How dare she go against me? I'll punish her, whip her, slice up her smooth skin and fill it with scars that will forever remind her of me and only me. But I don't. So far, I haven't even made a scratch on that little doll. I suppose this is what happens when I go too soft on her.
Her back is rapidly retreating, but it feels as if my feet are frozen to the ground. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Anger and desperation rises and I force my legs to move. I won't let her go. Not again.
My hand closes around her small shoulder. The bones underneath feel so thin and breakable. I could probably shatter them with just a bit more force. It's feminine, and oddly alluring. I want to squeeze and finger every bone in her body.
"Let me go…please." She says without even a hint of hesitation.
I stare at her still body and search. Search for remorse or uncertainty. Just the slightest fragment of waver is enough for me to pull her back. Anything. A tremble, a pause, fidgeting fingers, anything that contradicts her harsh tone and posture.
But she remains firm. My treasured doll shakes of my touch as though it were a pesky bug and heads towards the door. Her golden hair sways with every step she takes, glittering underneath the sunlight streaming in from the windows. Windows she opened.
Wrong move.
My eyes harden with cold resolve. I pick up an umbrella by the side of the couch. Silently, I creep up behind her while stiffening the muscles in my arm. Her hand reaches out for the doorknob and I simultaneously raise the umbrella.
With a dull whack, the hard wooden handle comes crashing down against the back of her head. A cry of pain scarcely flutters from her mouth before her knees buckle and she crumples into my arms. I gently turn her around and bring her face to my chest, imitating a gentleman catching a swooning girl. How different our situation is.
Then I see the tears streaking across her cheeks. The inklings of a smile tug at the corners of my lips. This girl really does cry at everything. What a pathetic weakling she is.
I swing her over my shoulder, reminiscent about our very first meeting. Things have changed quite a bit since then. I've become too caring, less cold, less violent, less myself. I'm losing my identity under her influence. She's shaken me, but I will definitely come to my senses.
With the clanking and clattering of a chain, I imprison this foolish girl in a hidden room beneath my library.
