Everything Bows to the Cold

The last rose petal dropped off the day that my mother died. Winter was fast approaching, and could be tasted, thick on the tongue like the cotton candy from that one last fall fair. I watched it flutter slowly downwards, lost in an intricate spiral until the wind picked up and carried it away. I didn’t know at the time that my mother, my beloved mother, had passed away. I waited in the garden for any news on her.
         She had begun having the headaches nearly a year ago, and as the seasons changed, they became steadily worse. I watched the only woman I would ever love or respect slowly wither and dry up, just like her once-adored rose garden. It was in the last few weeks that she had become bedridden, as fall slowly slipped away, and winter began to set in.
         Something stirred behind me, and I turned, startled out of my own thoughts. It was my father, his hands in his pockets, staring off past my face. My father and I looked remarkable alike, both tall, brooding figures, with fair hair and ever fairer complexions. Fortunately, I had received my mother’s soft features in place of the sharp, harsh ones of my father. It was a fact she had always loved, for she loved her beauty. And now, as my father opened his mouth, everything was about to change.
         “She’s gone…”
         Two words, so simple, but enough to break me inside. Tears sprang to my eyes, and by the time my father spoke again, they were silently streaming down my cheeks.
         “I’m going away…for a while.” Something like anger began to creep into his surprisingly shrill voice. “When I return, I want you to have pulled yourself together. No more of this womanly nonsense. You are a man for god sakes! Learn to act like it! Don’t stand there and bawl like a little sissy.” He turned away from me, his back to the looming manor. I carelessly smeared the tears away with the back of my hand and burst out-
         “Surely you must have some emotion! My mother, your wife! She’s dead! She’s never coming back…!” White-hot anger gripped me, and I swung my foot into the nearest object, a shrivelled twig of a rose bush. Spidery branches snapped and clung to my trousers as I stamped it, wanting to destroy it.
         All of the sudden, my father grabbed my shirt and pulled me close to his eyes.
         “Stop now. I never want to see you behave like this, ever!” He went from calm to a roar.          
         “Who cares about the effing rosebush? The only one who would have is dead! Dead! Just like that hateful plant!” A huge smack and considerable pain filled the courtyard as my father hit me across the face.
         “I’m going now. Do not follow me. I will return in a few weeks. In the meantime, I suggest you care for the house and pull yourself together.” He stooped for a moment, and for the first time, I noticed he was carrying his finest briefcase, locked and secured. There was no doubt in my mind that it was full of money. That way, he could go where he pleased, no possessions to tie him down. He could go wherever, just buying things as he needed them. That was the way my father worked, I suppose. He always wanted to be one step ahead of everyone one else, whether it be the government, rivals, or apparently even his only child.
         I stood in disbelief as I watched him cross the expansive lawn, then climb into his car and drive off down the driveway. Finally, he disappeared from my sight as he rounded the sharp curve, which blocked our home from sight on the road. My anger ebbed away as I stood outside, chilled, thinking of my mother’s body also growing cold, never to be warm again. Resting eternally in the stone mausoleum, icy cold, freezing though the winters, growing damp in the summer. I wanted to scream, to cry out my pain, to someone, anything, but I was alone. There wasn’t even a bird on the horizon. Just the dead flowers and the now-abandoned house.
         I was alone…and it would remain that way. I had no one else in the world that I could trust. Of course I had “friends”, if friendship was what you called the flimsy façade of our relationship. Our parents forced us together while they attended to business, and for this reason I had known most of them since I could remember. However, that didn’t mean that I liked them. They were the shallowest people I’d ever seen, and only worried about making money and marrying well. I’d always felt differently on the matter; I even disagreed with Mother on it. Spending your life with someone meant you actually had to feel something for them, and I would settle for no less than true love. Perhaps this was one of the reasons my father thought me to be “girly”, but I felt that this was right. Despite my feelings, my father insisted on me having romantic involvements with the daughters of his friends. My girlfriend was a rich snob, who of course my father and mother had both adored. Although she was pretty, her personality was like poison. She sought to destroy all people weaker than her, just because she could. The physical part of our relationship was the only sustaining factor in the matter. I had absolutely no desire to marry her; she had different ideas, of course.
         A gust of wind reminded me that I was still outside, and a sting of cold on my face confirmed I was crying again. The tears slid freely over my defined cheeks, and for a while I stood in the courtyard, mourning the loss of my mother. I sunk to my knees, the creamy khaki of my pants immediately attracting the filth of the unattended garden. The pain I felt in my heart made me feel like ripping myself open, just to let it out. As I wept, the face of my father loomed in my mind, and I pulled myself together quickly. Hopping to my feet, I brushed myself off, and looked to my home.          
The windows were dark, each one like a small black eye, spaced evenly across the back of the impressive manor. In a way I felt sympathy for it. We were both dark, empty, ripped away from our souls with the loss of the only important woman in the world. A fleeting thought of my mother made me wonder where exactly she was…was she still in that bedroom? I feared I would die if I found her lying there, and wouldn’t that be a lovely situation? My father returns home to find the two rotting corpses of his family…not that he’d care. The only real dilemma for him would be producing an heir…however; it could be easily solved as he’d always had a charm with women… I shuddered at the thought, memories of my childhood flooding into my mind.
         It only happened when Mother was away. The huge Chamberlain Manor swallowed countless women into its depths, where they would emerge, often late that night or the next morning, different somehow. Women I had always thought looked so pretty and nice, in their fancy clothes and makeup came in; they often came out grey, discolored, all their makeup ruined, and their once perfectly set hair a mess. I can clearly remember thinking that my father had a lot of friends, and they must play lots to look that tired and worn out…why did mother never join them? Later on, I understood. I knew what Father was doing, and I kept my mouth shut. I would never hurt my Mother like that. It would hurt both of us to know. So I shouldered the burden alone, listening to the laughter of the strange women echoing down the vast hallways, as he literally charmed the pants, or dress, or skirt, off her. I suffered silently, sneaking quietly back to my own room, where’d I’d put on the loudest CD I owned, and sat on the bed in silence, just drowning out reality. As I grew into my teens, I began to smoke cigarettes. It fit so nicely into my routine, it became second nature. I would light one up as the first song blared from my speakers, then another as I sat on the bed, my knees drawn close to me. A third one was “enjoyed” as I paced in front of my full-length windows; back and forth, inhale and exhale.
         I began to walk towards my home, wishing I had something to do with my hands, anything would do. My body ached for no reason at all, and I just wished the day to be over. It was a hard walk to drag myself across the grounds, and a welcoming feeling to step inside the expansive entrance hall. The emptiness of the house muffled the silence, and I could hear absolutely nothing. The noise of my footsteps was oddly stifled and short; however, I continued to the sweeping staircase, grasping the cold marble banister.
         Finally, I reached to heavy mahogany double doors that lead to my bedchamber. With I sigh, I turned the knob and pushed inwards, the door swinging open to admit me. I made a beeline to my huge closet, shoving past my clothing, crawling into the far corner. My hand met the cool glass of the bottle, and I relaxed a little. I pulled it towards me, sinking to the carpeted floor. Liquid sloshed around inside, muted but comforting. I leaned back into the wall as I unscrewed the cover and brought the bottle to my lips, singeing my nose with the hot scent. I closed my eyes, and tipped the warm scotch copiously into my mouth. An immediate wave of heat spread though me as the alcohol burned my throat.
There would be no more need to hide this; my father was gone! My thoughts began to grow incoherent as I drank more and more, spilling it down my front. He’d of course never known about my hidden pleasure, the fact that many bottles of whatever I could get passed though this house, unnoticed by his roving, all-knowing eyes. Mother would have killed me, had she known, but it wasn’t an issue anymore… I was all alone, and no one could tell me what to do. For a moment, I laughed giddily, then wondered if perhaps Father had left the key to the bar… I’d only been in there once, but knew all about it. For years I had coveted that door, knowing what was on the other side, but being unable to reach it. And if I could’ve, what difference would it have made? He’d have known if I’d have tried anything. But he wouldn’t now. It was the one thought that raced through my amazingly clear mind. As quickly as I could, I jumped up, and pushed my way out of my closet, eager to reach that forbidden door. I didn’t so much as stumble as I dashed down the corridor, and down the once-cold stairs.
Everything that had looked so cold was now warm and inviting. The house called to me…begging me to enjoy myself. For the first time in seventeen years, I truly felt at home. I half-jogged the long hallways, and finally ducked inside a door to my left. Cloudy sunlight spilled on my father’s desk from the open window behind it, and I spotted the key. It was hanging from the small set of hooks, with all the other keys of the manor. Normally my father kept this door locked when he wasn’t in it, but I supposed left if open in his haste to leave. I snatched it, and ran. I ran because I wanted more than anything to be in that room right now. To drown away any emotion left in me. Pass out and feel nothing. Perhaps I would even die, and join my mother once more. I laughed heartily as I stopped in front of the door.
The keys jangled as I moved them towards the lock…my hands were shaking in anticipation. The largest one slipped in soundlessly, and with a tiny click, the door swung inwards.
It was more beautiful than I remembered. Hundreds of bottles lined an entire wall, with a glossy black bar in front. Crystal glasses of all types were lined up, waiting to be filled. I would be the one…I would use every glass, try every drink. Drain every single bottle, and drink the legendary Chamberlain bar dry. I stared in amazement; absolutely no idea of where to begin. I slowly walked over, my mouth hanging open, trying to take it all in.
The cold marble of the bar counter felt slick under my fingertips, my hands gliding across the surface as I walked the length of it. Slowly, I strolled behind it, my confidence going up as I approached the long cooler running under the fully stocked shelves. Hundreds more bottles were inside, chilled to perfection. Spying a massive jar of imported olives, my mind finally settled on having a martini. As strong as it could possibly be. I smiled as I gathered a glass, removed the olives and a bottle of gin from the refrigerator, and a spotless stainless steel pitcher from under the bar. My hands shook as I spilled the mixture into the glimmering glass, and shoved the pitcher aside. In one smooth movement, I had downed half the drink, without a second thought. The poorly mixed alcohol lingered in my mouth and throat, my cheeks blazing red from the heat.
A single hiccup escaped from me as I reached for the alcohol once again. This time, I completely ignored mixing anything, and drank straight out of the bottle, just as I’d done in my closet for the past few years. I allowed my shaking legs to collapse underneath me, so that I was now sitting on the floor, cradling the gin to my chest. I continued to drink profusely for a while, losing track of time as my eyelids grew heavy. Soon after, I slumped fowards, the bottle rolling out of my hand, and spilling out slowly onto the tiled floor.
I awoke later with the beginnings of a hangover pressing every inch of me, though especially so in my aching head and stiff body. I groaned, rolling onto my stomach, my nose inches from the acrid-smelling gin on the floor. My mouth watered, and slowly I lowered my mouth to the puddle, savoring it. Like I cat, I quickly lapped up the now-warm alcohol, as if it were milk. I could feel grit from the floor grinding my teeth as I swallowed; however, I was well beyond the point of caring.  I soon found myself licking only floor, the gin was gone. However, I for no reason at all, continued to drag my tongue across the floor, following the grooves of the grout between the large black tiles. This was better than I ever imagined. I felt free, unconfined, loose of my father’s tight grip. The fact still remained that my Mother was dead, but even licking the floor was better than upholding the evil regime of my father’s home.
A wave of nausea hit me as hard as an oncoming train as I sat up. Head reeling, I allowed myself to lean backwards, so that I rested against the wood of the cupboard behind me. My breathing became ragged as I struggled to hold my squirming stomach. I’d never had this much to drink in my life, but there was no way I wanted to stop now. The only thing I could think of to relieve the sick-feeling was to drown it in more. My hand groped the counter behind me as I attempted to locate another bottle without having to get up. I couldn’t find one. There was no choice; I was going to have to move. But every inch of my body protested that. Oh well, it wasn’t like I cared anymore. I stood up clumsily, and staggered severely to the left. My failing arm made contact with a glass shelf, followed by the rest of my body. Bottles crashed violently to the floor, soaking my feet with liquid and glass shards.
I carelessly tripped through the mess, snatching a bottle of bourbon as I headed toward the moving leather sofa across the room. The ceiling dipped to the floor and spun wildly. But I was still in control of the situation. I attempted to strut across my floor but found myself stumbling again. Struggling to regain my balance, I fought a losing battle, and suddenly my face made contact with the hard exposed stone of the fireplace. Immediate warmth flooded to my chin; blood filled my mouth as my split lip gushed. I spit to my side, and gulped out of bottle to cleanse my teeth. The only effect achieved a sharp sting in my lip. For the first time, I found I couldn’t get to my feet. The spinning of the room overtook me as my alcohol-saturated blood streamed down my front, staining my expensive sweater deep crimson.
Seeing my own blood made me realize, yet again, that I was alone. My mother’s blood didn’t spew forth out of her anymore. I felt angry again. I wanted to kill someone, myself even, just to end the helleous1 torture of my pitiful life. Blood continued to pour copiously from the gaping wound as I thrashed on the floor in an attempt to stand. I twisted around as I fell once more from my kneeling position. I flailed my legs crazily, until my foot accidentally made contact with the same part of the fireplace that I had hit my face on just a moment ago. A crack like gunfire sounded resolutely, and I cried out a long chain of expletives as I curled up in pain. I honestly just wanted to be dead, never to have to feel like this. Huge sobs shook my entire body as I trembled. I hated being this weak. No one was here to see, but I still felt like the woman my father accused me of being. My eyes fluttered for a moment, before rolling to the back of my head once more. My head hit the floor in unconsciousness yet again, though it was very much welcome this time. It was the next best thing to becoming a lifeless corpse, no pulse. No breath passing through my lips. I wished I could take the cursed life my father had given me and just throw it away.
         ***
         It was a considerable length of time before I awoke…the light fading in the windows was that of early evening. My face was saturated in liquid; my cuts and gashes still oozing red. I wasn’t drunk anymore, or so I thought. I easily sat up— wondering why I was on the floor, until I tried to put my foot under myself to stand, and saw my shoe massively distorted. The leather of my expensive trainer strained against the swollen mess of my foot inside. Quickly, I untied it and attempted to loosen it as much as possible, which didn’t end up helping much in the excruciating process of pulling it off. My sock was just as tight, and for the first time, I noticed the uncomfortable tightness of the material on my ankle. This was easier to remove, but just as painful.
         My foot was not much of a foot anymore…three toes were just huge lumps of flesh, inflated to round protrusions of pain. There must have been somewhere broken between my heel and toes too, since there was an overall crooked angle to my foot, and trying to move it, had no response. My hands were shaking as I saw the damage, which would probably never be fixable. There was no way I could drive in this state, and besides I couldn’t open the front gate, to which only my father knew the lock code. That ruled out any emergency help as well, I supposed. I closed my eyes in thought, logical thought, for the first time since Mother had gone. Surely there must be painkillers in the house somewhere; my dear sweet Mother had needed them so badly in her horrible existence.
         Finally, I decided I would bind my foot so it would be easier to walk. Using what was available, I pulled off my sweater, and ripped it in two along the seams. Using the arm of the garment, I wrapped it around my foot as fast as I could, in a poor attempt to curb the inevitable pain. It didn’t work well, as I expected, and I felt what little blood I had in my face drain out as I went pale. If I had been shaking before, it was nothing compared to now. I slouched forward over my legs, breathing heavily to try and stop the feeling overwhelming my body.
         When I felt the nausea was back in a more controllable area, I tested out my makeshift brace. It worked as well as I would have supposed, which was merely passable. It at least gave me enough balance to drag myself to the wall, where I could support myself with little effort. However, there was nothing little about how difficult is was to get to that wall; by the time my hands touched the smooth painted surface, I was out of breath. My mind wearily thought out the possibilities of finding pills in various rooms. I finally decided that my mother’s bathroom was most likely, and thankfully I could access it from the hallway…avoiding the death room. I quickly questioned whether the door perhaps might be open, to that room, but I would just make a dash for it and close it before I could see anything.
         Surprisingly, the journey was not as difficult as I had imagined, despite the mountainous climb of the stairs, but a warm smell began to creep into my nostrils as I rounded the corner into the proper hallway. I pretended I couldn’t smell anything, and it didn’t bother me as it began to get stronger, approaching my destination. I quietly opened the bathroom door, anticipating the worst, and was relieved to see that the connecting door was pulled up to the frame, not latched, but closed enough to suit me. I hobbled to the medicine cabinet, and found a huge selection of painkillers to choose from.
         Grabbing a couple of bottles, I turned to exit, but curiosity was pulling at me…just a peek in would suffice…it was my Mother, after all. I had every right. Dropping the bottles into my pocket with a rattle, I grasped the knob and pulled as I inhaled a breath.
         The room was shrouded in darkness; and the stench was overwhelmingly horrid. The shrunken figure of my mother was covered in the large bed…thankfully, I saw nothing gruesome, for the smell was certainly enough for me. I slammed the door and turned my back, trying to evacuate the smell from my lungs several times with a cough.
         I supposed I was pretty much hopeless now. What kind of a man couldn’t handle a smell? I hadn’t seen anything, except a pile of blankets, under which my mother rested. The smell is what got to me... I sighed, very grateful my father was no longer in the picture to ridicule me. I was weak. I could see what I had denied for years, painfully clear in front of my weary eyes. 
         Not caring for my foot or the pain radiating off, I walked as normally as possible out of the room. As I stepped into the hallway once more, I felt a deep chill, breaking my exposed torso and arms to break out in gooseflesh. A single drop of hot blood splattered from my chin onto my chest, which made the cold air circulating around me to feel even colder. With a newly decided purpose, I limped toward the staircase once more. The wintry air stiffened my already aching body, and each step was an even greater challenge than the one preceding it. I reached the bottom after what seemed an eternity…and immediately, my legs gave out and I was united with the frozen floor.
         Falling was growing old quickly—how many times had I been on this damn floor in the last day? I was just going to have to learn to handle my drink better… I was acting so foolishly under the influence of alcohol—being entirely ungraceful, and like a common drunk. I was a useless sod who couldn’t even keep his own two feet on the ground. Well, actually now I only had one foot and a lumpy jumble for the other. In the tiny course of two days, I had become a monster. Mutilated beyond recognition. I regained my footing and walked into the kitchen, heading towards the huge knife array splayed across the back wall. My face gleamed in the frigid stainless steel appliances as I chose a sharp carving knife from the collection. I ran my finger along the gleaming edge, and pulled my cleanly sliced finger to my eye level. After staring at the perfect red droplets, I traced down my cheeks in one flawless scarlet line for each side. I grabbed my knife, and redrew the streak with the point, slashing two matching wounds on both sides of my mother’s face. I didn’t want to look like her. Insane thoughts raced through my mind as the blood flowed freely. Again.
         A gorgeous glimmering container of wine caught my eye, sitting perfectly in the cooler. I had forgotten the medications I “needed”, so I decided now would probably be the best time to take them. I caressed the decanter, as I picked it up. I savoured the bitter taste, before popping the cap off one of the pill bottles, and dumping the entire contents down my throat, followed by a splash of that glorious liquid. I sputtered a cough, choking slightly on the number of pills painfully making their way to my stomach.
         Soon after, numbness spread through my limbs, and a serene calm overtook everything else. My mind was blank for the first time—ever. I truly felt nothing… my arm moved in front of my face, and it was like watching a film. I could hardly tell if I were standing, sitting, breathing, even. Everything was so colourful…I blinked for a moment only to realise I hadn’t in a while and my eyes had dried slightly. I couldn’t suppress a laugh. Hysterical laughter; I felt so good. This is what people were meant to feel…nothing. I took a step to test, after a vague remembrance that my foot was injured.
         I think I must have been dreaming when I “hurt” it. There was nothing wrong with it at all. I didn’t understand why I had ruined my nice sweater wrapping it up. I reached down and yanked the shredded fabric off my foot. It felt warm, and tickled. I smiled and laughed again, peering down at it. It looked funny…but it was hilarious. I doubled over laughing again.
         I suddenly had the inclination to dance….just dance. Like a raving maniac. I wasn’t a maniac, of course, I was just happy. So very, very happy. I pranced towards the living room and was surprised when I tripped, and fell, yet again. I just got back up and dragged my hopeless foot behind me as I headed towards the massive stereo system, prominently placed in it gleaming case the next to the enormous television. I flipped the switch and it came to life with tiny lights glimmering all over the front of it. Baroque music poured out, winding into my ears. I scowled…this wasn’t dancing music.
         Oh well, I didn’t feel like dancing anymore anyway. I was sleepy. A large, dramatic yawn escaped me, and I stretched luxuriantly. It was much past my bedtime besides; I hadn’t properly slept since…that thing that happened I no longer remembered. I was nice to be numb. So utterly numb.
         In my medication-induced haze, I again climbed the stairs, two flights, to the upstairs hallway. With my eyes half-closed, I staggered through the winding corridors, and flung open a heavy door. A bed never looked so inviting in my life. I was ready to collapse, but I still felt heavenly…so numb…. I snuggled deep into the heavy blankets, and immediately passed out in the deepest sleep of my life.
         ***
         Smell assaulted my nostrils, as consciousness struggled for control in my brain. It was enough to bring a sour taste to my mouth; I turned to my side and vomited onto the floor. Then turned back to see the source of smell, along the way noticing the drapes decorated with….roses…the pink walls…In horror, looked directly to my right, and saw….
         My mother. My dead Mother. In the bed. That I slept in….and if that weren’t enough, she was covered in blood…My hand slowly reached up to my cheeks. It came away sticky with blood. Struggling with my shaking arms, I pulled the covers down a little.
         Her nightgown was dishevelled….and marred with the stain of my bleeding face.
         What had I done? In the back of my mind, I knew, but I didn’t want to think it.
         A noise downstairs brought my out of my paralysing shock.. I jumped up, preparing to race downstairs, when I realised my foot was still broken, and no longer bound. It was still a painful burning mess, but I needed desperately to get out of this room…and see who would dare enter my house…
         A surprisingly quick time later, I was downstairs, face to face with….
         My father.
         I was covered in blood, half naked, an utter mess.
         And my father was home. Staring at me.
         “What…what the hell is this?” He asked in a deathly calm voice.
         I didn’t respond. There was no response. I stared back at him, pure hatred raging behind my cloudy eyes.
         “I asked you a question, boy. Answer me now! You will not disobey me in my own house.”
         “You are mistaken father. This house belongs to Mother and I. You abandoned us. Now you are the one who’s going to suffer.” My voice was steady, not betraying how I felt inside.
         “Your mother is dead. And you will be too, soon enough. I’ve seen the damage you’ve done to my bar. And my kitchen. You must be sick in the head, just like your dear old mummy, judging by what you’ve done to yourself.” He sneered, looking pointedly at his son’s face and foot.
         “What right do you have coming back here? You leave your seventeen year old child alone with his mother’s body. Did you go crawling into one of your other woman’s arms? Don’t think I didn’t know about that. You’re the one responsible for the death of Mother…every time you brought one of them home you killed her a little more.”
         “Ah…those certainly were better times.” He crossed his arms, and leaned back into his heels a bit. “Now look what I have for company. Some demented woman-wannabe.”
         “I am not a woman, father.” I mocked him, for I certainly no longer recognised him as any sort of authority to me.
         “Fine then, a little, whiny girl—”
          I couldn’t stand to look at the figure in front of me anymore. Any dignity and respect I had left dissipated at the sight of my father ridiculing me for the final time. I lunged towards him, catching him off guard and taking him to the floor, despite the fact that he had the obvious advantage of two working feet. His face was my main target, and I pummelled it blindly against his struggle.
         “Did you expect me to take your lies forever?” I panted, continuing to flail my fists in the general area of his head. As I was taller, slightly heavier, and far more muscular than man trapped underneath me, I had no problem keeping him that way. Blood dripped out of my reopened cheek gashes, and dripped down, where it mingled with the blood of my father. Hatred raced through my veins, every inch of my being. I wanted him dead. And I would not give up until he was. Perhaps I was the insane freak my father had accused me of being. After all, he had been correct about my effeminate reaction to my mother’s death. Maybe he was right…but that wasn’t going to stop me now. It didn’t end the fact that I truly hated this man. A man who had no respect for anything except money. He never loved his son, or even his wife. He deserved to die.
         He groaned wearily as he stopped trying to block my punches. But he wasn’t anywhere near dead yet. However, I hastily stood up, and walked towards the front door. His beloved walking stick, which he never really even needed, was propped up against the closet. I snatched it up, and turned back to my father. He was about to feel what my mother had felt. Only there was no way to prolong his suffering as hers had been. She had suffered for years, slowing dying a little more each day. He was going to die, but it would probably be a manner of hours, not the endless torture Mother had experienced.
         The hideous stick whistled in the air as it swung towards its target. It hit perfectly with a deafening crack, on my father’s forehead. He gasped and moaned, curling up a little, hands scrabbling in an attempt to protect himself from further blows. It did not stop me. Four more perfect hits, and each limb was shattered. He would never walk again. His arms were useless.
         By now the man I had once respected was crying, sprawled on the floor and unable to move.
         “Crying is such a womanly thing, isn’t it? Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen you cry…are you enjoying yourself?”
         He did not respond, but it wasn’t as if I actually expected him to. Carefully I held the walking stick under my arm, and grabbed my father by the arms. With more determination than I had had in days, I dragged him…up seemingly endless stairs, his head thumping loudly every time.
         We finally arrived at my destination. I pushed the door I had left partially open in my rush to leave a mere half hour ago, and hauled the eldest Chamberlain in. With the last of the strength I could muster, I picked up my father and carefully placed him on the bed…next to his wife. I placed his arms around her stinking body, and put them perfectly face to face. Leaning down, I gave my dearest Mother one last kiss on her bloated cheek.          
I pulled my stick out from under my arm, and wrapped my bloody hands around it. One final swing of the stick into his chest broke several ribs, and rendered him breathless. I turned to the door, tossing the treacherous weapon aside. I was almost to the hallway when I heard something behind me—
“I hate you, son.” He wheezed, obviously straining.
“Enjoy daddy. It’s so nice to see you and mummy together. Bye-bye.”
I limped out the door, never to return.