Puff...
The bud of a cigar glowed in a dimly lit room, wisps of smoke curling in the amber glow of the pendant lights hanging just above a figure sitting on a comfy armchair, The wisps dancing lazily through the air, eventually finding their way gracefully out through the vents lining the top edges of the wall. The room, though it was a bit small, was elegant, its lighting adding a feeling of sophistication to the already excellently designed study, floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with hardbound books all bearing the faint scent of rich aged paper, you could almost smell the history etched into every page.
In the centre sat a hulking man, built like a relic of war. A crimson scar stretched across his face, a constant reminder of his years of unknown trials. He sat on the armchair, his back relaxed, fully reclined on the chair gazing at the ceiling only occasionally looking down to take puffs from the cigar resting between his thick fingers, its cherry-red tip pulsing with each inhale. Occasionally a soft tick! Sounded as he sat upright to gently tap some of the accumulated ash on the cigar into a stylised ashtray beside him before settling back into his resting position.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A soft knock echoed from the already open door.
"Come in," the huge man said, not even turning to confirm the guest's identity, his voice deep and controlled.
Phooo…
Wisps of smoke trailed out as he exhaled. Instead of gazing at the ceiling, he now looked down; his controlled gaze locking into the guest's unsteady eyes as they walked in.
Ken walked timidly to the front of the man, his eyes fixed on the polished wooden floor after noticing how closely the man seemed to be studying him. His long, red hair fell forward, partly shielding his face, while his nightgown covered up his bruised body.
"What did you do to Oliver?" the man asked, resting the cigar in the ashtray, eyes now fixed on Ken.
"I–I did no...thing, father," Ken muttered, barely audible, a faint stutter betraying his tense nerves, leaving him unable to look his father in the eye.
At least she isn't here, Ken thought inwardly, relieved at his stepmother's absence.
The silence in the room was palpable. His father's eyes rested on his frail, aching body, still sore from the day's misadventure, a glint of remorse flashing and disappearing as quickly as it came. Then the distinct sound of heels hitting the wooden floor echoed into the study, every click jolting dread into Ken's already trembling body.
"Honeeeey… I'm ba–" she paused as she got to the study door.
"You… cursed little thing, Justin honey what is he doing here??" she whimpered rushing past Ken, to Justin's side making an effort to show her disgust as she dramatically brushed past Ken.
Mary, Ken's dreaded stepmother. She strode in like a queen without a crown, wrapped in a flowing gown that clung to her hourglass figure. Her voice was syrupy sweet, yet every syllable dripped poison. The one person Ken hated with every fibre in him, the true cause of all his suffering.
"Justin, baby," she purred a seductress hard at work.
"Oliver came to me and Miss Angela right when we were closing things out, whining about this cursed boy. I warned you that the woman's curse was going to keep meddling even from the grave. But you never listen," she whined softly, caressing Justin's shoulders with her polished claws.
Her smile thinned as she glanced back at Ken, a scornful glare that could kill. The sweetness in her voice flattened, exposing well-treated steel smelted to become the best stabbing knife.
"My sister couldn't just die quietly. She had to leave behind this... unfinished burden." She shot out, not even having the decency to hide her hatred for the child from his father, who just sat there watching silently.
She stood abruptly, the gown swirling around her legs as she brushed past Ken again this time with enough force to make him visibly shake, her scornful remark delivered, she once again vanished into the hall.
Justin said nothing. He simply picked up the cigar looking ahead into the lit hall. He shook his head slightly, a dry chuckle escaping him as he raised the cigar to his lips, inhaling, the bud glowing back to life.
Puff...
"Well... at least one of the sisters was normal," he muttered, a dry chuckle escaping him again as he let out the smoke.
Ken stared at him in disbelief.
Justin finally noticed he had not yet sent the boy back on his way; he had nothing else to say; the reporter had done plenty already.
"Oh, you're still here? You can be on your way now," he said, waving the boy away, still chuckling slightly.
At that command, Ken turned, preparing to walk back down the hallway, his hand lingering on the doorknob. The hallway stretched before him like a tunnel through memory, lined with pictures from a happier past. Though they had servants, the frames hung there unkept on the commands of the new lady of the house. A breath. A pause. Then the world resumed its weight as he made his way to his room.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock above his bed marked the hour.
"Midnight already?" he whispered. Climbing onto the bed, slumping into it, reaching for a small photo frame on the nightstand.
"Mom..."
Tears welled up, blurring the faces in the photo: his mother, smiling; Justin beside her, younger with eyes full of passion and hope for the future; Ken, just a child, laughing, oblivious to his future.
He clutched the frame to his chest.
"We write the direction of our lives... right, Mom?" he mumbled recalling one of the things his mother used to say to him. The silence answered, his only true companion since her passing.
"Then how do I change the cursed ink Lucifer gave me for something I can use? How do I write my own damn story with a broken pen?" He buried his face into his pillow, a muffled cry escaping. The tears came fast, choking his breath. The photo frame trembled in his hands.
His sobs slowly faded into hiccups, then silence. As he slowly drifted to sleep had fallen asleep.
Screech.
Justin opened the door to Ken's room. The hallway light spilt in behind him.
"Tonight was a record, wouldn't you say, Sasha?" he asked, speaking to his late wife, as he moved his large frame softly to the bed and sat beside his son. Ken, not stirring from his exhaustion, which had finally won control of his body.
"He'll awaken soon. His seventeenth birthday is next month. He's a late bloomer... just like you. I remember the day your divine calling came. The way you smiled... damn, I still see it." he said recalling past events reaching out and gently running a hand through Ken's hair.
"I don't know why I'm doing this either… Why I married Mary... Why I treat him like a stranger by day and ache for him by night. Why I gave up on the district. On the people. Why I still see you here, even knowing you're gone. Why I'm not dead yet." His voice cracked.
He took the frame from Ken's sleeping hands, looking longingly at it for a moment.
"Look at him, Sasha... I did this. I made him cry," he said, finally breaking, a tear sliding down his scarred cheek, his hulking frame slumped.
He placed the frame back, the tear evaporation as he stood, switched off the light, and walked to the door.
The room dimmed to darkness.
The door clicked softly behind him.