Push

Push
Chapter 1: Mr. Mann
Victor sat in the parlor of his Victorian styled home, drinking bland tea and staring out at a large window. Thirteen years of solitude and ignorance led to him being a bit “soft in the head.”
“Mr. Mann, what do you suppose we do today?” The boy’s head turned towards an empty chair.
“Ah, but Mr. Mann, I know nothing of the world. Setting off somewhere would only worry my parents.”
The chair said nothing, nor did the air above the chair. Victor saw quite differently though—a gentleman with a mischievous gleam in his blue eye, the other covered by a monocle. He sat cross-legged in the chair, occupying the space with his grand, tall form.
Victor spied him dust a piece of lint off of his coat disdainfully. Smiling, the man replied: Victor, the world is just the empty wood you see surrounding your home and nothing else. It drops off at a ledge, a spiky precipice that looms over an immense nothingness. Nothing but the dark. What is there to fear in the dark?
“Mr. Mann, I’m afraid you’re wrong everything is worthy of fear in the dark. You have yet to speak of my family, who would surely worry, especially in my frail position.” Victor motioned to his cane.
Your family, you ask? They would certainly not worry! Your mother is weak and frail. Your father, you ask, is a lazy drunk who has squandered his fortunes on tobacco and cheap wine. You know that very well. As for that old maid and the butler? More than mindless gossip spans their relationship.
Victor pondered Mr. Mann’s arguments for a moment, “What do you suggest I do about that?”
I suggest many a thing Master Victor…Mr. Mann replied as-a-matter-of-factly, Why not rid yourselves of them—all of the dysfunctional things that have brought this beautiful estate to shambles. The maid and butler, your uncaring father, and even your horrid mother, what if they all just dissipated…? His last words sounded full of longing, practically a groan.
“That, I suppose, would better my home.” Victor replied, “What should I do to give this place true luster?”
Take the rat poison, and slip it into the kettle, offer the maid and butler tea, and wait.
Victor, stupidly thinking what he was doing was right, and that rat poison only worked on rats obeyed his “friend’s” instructions. The rat poison was on a high shelf in the cabinet though, and it took some time for Victor to climb up the short ladder. His leg ached a bit, but still Mr. Mann urged him on.  He called Maribel and Lyle towards the kitchen to break for lunch.
“You all must be extremely tired, for the house is so messy, and you have been cleaning upstairs all morning.” Victor limped towards the pair, holding two ceramic tea cups.
“Yes, Young Lord, upstairs is terribly messy…thank you child.” Maribel took her cup gratefully, casting a surreptitious glance at the butler.
“Of course, thank you…” Lyle drank deeply from the cup.
Victor sipped his own cup, watching them both. Minutes turned to hours, and the maid and butler had long since returned upstairs.
Mr. Mann materialized at Victor’s side after the sky was turning purple.
Lyle, poor dear, has no partner in his web of fornication…at least, not anymore. He is very sick as well, bruises cover his arms and his nose bleeds quite heavily. It is only a matter of time before he too passes.
“And then will our home be cleansed?” Victor asked, giddily.
Almost, my boy…your father he requests a knife—long and sharp—to cut his meat. Would you like to help your father?
“I thought—”
Would you like to help?
“If you say so, Mr. Mann.” Victor replied.
Mr. Mann led the boy to his father’s quarters, Victor was carrying Lyle’s sharpest knife.
Now, step in while he is in his drunken sleep, and we shall take him away together.
Obeying Mr. Mann’s orders, Victor held the knife loose in his hand, aiming the tip at his father’s skull—happily clearing his home of the wretches that populated the property.
With a swift flick of his wrist, as directed by Mr. Mann, Victor tossed the knife—impaling his father’s forehead. A thick river of blood oozed down his father’s face.
Not deterred, but rather excited that he was eradicating sinners from a sinning home, Victor asked Mr. Mann what would happen next.
Take the knife, and sever your father’s right hand from the wrist—yes right there.
Victor took the knife, and, with several hard strokes cut through the space between his father’s radius, ulna, and carpal bones (as directed by Mr. Mann.)
Taking his father’s right hand Victor followed Mann down towards his father’s closet, where in a small brown case on a high shelf, lay a pistol. Mann directed Victor, telling him to take the pistol with his father’s bloodied hand, and creep over to his mother’s side. All of this, of course, took much time. Victor’s bad leg handicapped him, but he ignored his disability, wanting more than nothing to please the handsome gentleman whom he had befriended.
Never having held a pistol before, Victor had to be instructed briefly on the use of the weapon.
There, you learn fast! Now, let us rid ourselves of the last evil, the greatest evil—a mother unwilling to hold and care for her precious child.
Victor held the gun to his mother’s heart, “I am doing this for the sake of my home…the only treasure of my lifelong perdition.”
He fired.
Chapter 2: The Dark
Morning arrived, and Victor, not the least bit haunted by the events of the previous night, awoke refreshed. Mr. Mann waited for him to get dressed, a thing Victor had perfected to his abilities.
Now, my boy, shall I take you to see the precipice? I shall be with you in the dark, do not worry.
“Yes, Mr. Mann, of course. You have helped me to see…”
And they trudged though the thick trees, until, in fact, Victor did see a cliff.
“There it is…the last point of my world.” Victor struggled to scramble up the slippery rocks.
Pure delusion tricked him into seeing nothing in the ground below, just endless darkness.
I wonder, is there an end to that dark? Mr. Mann had a bit of hysteria in his voice, What if, someone was to fall, would they…would they die?
“Quite possibly they would.” Victor replied. He leaned over to look, pain screamed in his leg, telling him not to lean, lest he wanted a completely worthless appendage. He, being the blissfully ignorant child he was, ignored the pain as best as he could. He even leaned closer to the ridge, and closer to the dark—rocks?—no it was just a starless night. The tiniest bit of pressure eased him forward, until, in a moment of pure insanity—maybe a push?—no it was his head, too soft, he fell, stumbling, tumbling into the night, his bad leg screaming the entire way.
He was engulfed in a soundless world of dark.
Chapter 3: Decay
Mr. Mann waited until the stench of death filled the home, a rotting body in nearly every bed. Even the home seemed to die—the paint crumbling, the now moth eaten dusty chairs and couches hardly recognizable. It was desolate, it was horrible. A nightmarish castle looming atop a lonely hill, surrounded only by the wood and the ever slippery precipices.
It was a sick and twisted place, filled with the bodies of sick and twisted people. It was dark. It was home.