Birth of a Killer

One day, my mother was simply gone, found work in London as their patriarch told Julian's family and nobody questioned it beyond the initial explanation. The butler eventually took his own family to a new household, miles away and they never heard from them again.

Two years ago, Julian's father died and as the will was read, everybody was surprised to find out that my mother had been his mistress and there had been a child. Me. The old man obviously felt responsible for her wellbeing and had left her a considerable amount of money, which she was to receive in case she was not married at the time of his death.

Julian had been trying to find her since his - or rather, our father's death. My grandfather, whom he managed to track down was of no help, saying that he didn't have a daughter any longer, she had brought shame onto her family and herself, she was better off wherever she was, not knowing what was going on with people from her old life. My mother's mother eventually broke down and told Julian where we were to be found and he had been looking for us in London for a while.

He considered it a great tragedy that he was but a week too late. Were he to find us sooner, my mother would certainly still be alive and life would have gotten better for us. Great sorrow overwhelmed me, and for the first time in my young life I understood the great irony with which the fate seems to smack us all about.

Julian expressed great desire that I should return to our father's home, where I would receive the kind of life his brother deserves. With a heavy heart I agreed, as I saw great relief on Mr. Elvey's face, some due to my good luck, some I suppose because he would be excused from the responsibility for me. He was but an old man with children of his own grown, and he was ready to settle into the life without worries such as I would have presented.

It had taken me years to realize how generous Julian and the rest of the family had been. They could easily have ignored their father's wishes, stating that it was impossible to find his old mistress and her bastard child. They could have given the money to my mother's family and washed their hands of any other troubles. But they didn't do that.

Later on, I was to find out that apart from Julian, my two other half-brothers Daniel and Winston were just as persistent in the search for my mother, just as determined to find her and particularly me, trying to right the wrong. I've always been grateful for their determination and sense of justice.

After my mother's death I had found that I simply didn't care for people much any longer. However, I have to admit that my three brothers, romantic poet Julian, studious doctor Daniel and Winston the priest have always had a soft spot in my heart. They had saved me from the kind of hardship and horror that I had later in life bestowed upon others. Whether that was a revenge for my mother's death, or a simple seed of evil that I had been born with, I would never be able to understand. But, I am beyond worrying about that now.

Julian and I left London the following morning and he had allowed me to take anything of mine I wanted, cautioning me that when we arrived to our destination, a complete set of new clothes, shoes, books and everything else a young lad needs would be provided for me, and I will want for nothing.

Julian was true to his word and I was delighted to find Daniel and Winston to be just as generous and open hearted towards me as their brother had been. To my young eyes, the manor house had an appearance of a castle. It was a sombre, grey-bricked monstrosity, softened by the breathtakingly beautiful garden in the front, a large fountain encircled by numerous paths creating a labyrinth of sorts, and dotted with hundreds of small bushes, all carefully trimmed into perfect oval shapes, not a leaf or a branch out of place. I was given a room so big that one could have put ten of my mother's little attic lodgings in there. Everything was clean and smelling of exotic scents, books were to be found in every room, and behind the house I found another huge garden attached to sprawling meadows with grazing horses. There were indoor bathrooms and toilettes with running water, mind you; thick carpets covered the floors of each room, softening the steps of its inhabitants. Enormous paintings decorated the high walls, most of them depicting the champion horses, which apparently were a passion of my father. How odd it is to say that even today - my father.

There was always plenty of food on the table, once a month a tailor would appear at our house and the four of us would order a set of brand new clothes, too many to wear out in our lifetimes.

The one odd thing that struck me about Daniel and Julian is that neither was married, although they did court different ladies and from time to time people were wondering if this was the lucky girl one or the other would have finally settled down with. It never happened for them, however, just like it never happened for me. I suppose we preferred freedom to a quiet family life. Winston, being a priest, never had a worry of finding a wife to occupy his mind with.

I was taught how to read properly, write in beautiful handwriting, ride horses, dance and play the piano. My brothers were always fussing over me, sometimes giving me a feeling that I was a little girl who needed much attention, not a young lad, who had just crawled from the slums of, what at the time was the biggest city in the world.

I would be lying to say that I didn't miss London, despite all the wealth and attention I had received in my new home. I missed the cacophony of the sounds found only in a big city, crowds of people, even the obscenities with which I had been showered on regular basis, tossed at me by the drunks, homeless, prostitutes who didn't want me to linger about and rob them of their prospective shilling, even by people who simply had a bad day and have decided to ease their grief by taking it out on an indifferent bystander. I missed the markets where I could nick an apple or an orange, numerous pubs where nice gents would let me have a fag, even the smell of London was the thing that I seemed to long for, no matter how foul and disgusting.

On the other hand, I was truly loved by my brothers and had attended numerous balls and gatherings, social events and I was lucky enough to be present at the dinner, which was blessed by the presence of the Queen herself. The work of my doctor brother Daniel was very impressive, and his scientific research had him invited to numerous assemblies of importance, all of which he gladly shared with the rest of us.

The one thorn in my side at that time was Miss Redfern. Given that none of my brothers had a wife, she took the place of a matriarch of sorts, running the household with an iron hand, and saving for her three employers, didn't afford as much as a smile or a kind word to anyone else, including me. I do believe in her mind she was not simply a hired hand, but a part of the family itself.

She was a tall, birdlike creature. The bony frame of her body emphasized her height. The face was long, gaunt and freckled, with a pronounced chin and huge, soft green eyes, giving her an appearance of a frog. Her brown hair was always pulled into a bun on the back of her head. The clothes she wore were just as brown as her hair, giving her an aura of strictness and determination. I always imagined that she would have no problems fitting perfectly inside a lunatic asylum, dishing out pills and overseeing the madness of the poor souls who happened to find themselves on that rather unfortunate path in their miserable lives.

The woman absolutely hated me. When I had first arrived at the manor house, she looked at me like I was a disgusting bug that needed to be squashed. She despised my accent and unfamiliarity with the habits of the upper class. She seemed to grow even more resentful of me as I improved my English, now pronouncing it smoothly, with a melody, which would make an observer believe that I had been born an aristocrat.

Whenever out of my brothers' earshot, she would hiss insults at me, calling me an ignoramus and a bastard, loudly speculate on my true origins and determinedly conclude that I am nothing but a fraud, not a real son of the old master and some day someone would open their eyes to the truth, which in her opinion would land me be back in the dung, which I had crawled out of and somehow managed to enchant the poor Julian into belief that I was his brother. Many a time she would rap her bony knuckles against my head, pull on my hair or ears and if I weren't fast enough with my dinner, she would take the plate away in a hurry, despite my protestations. If I were in the house alone, she would not even serve any meals. Of course, none of that happened when my brothers were present. She still wouldn't be kind to me, but she held her tongue. Even when they proudly pointed out to how well I was progressing in my education, she would glare at me hatefully and murmur something under her breath.

"Never mind her," Julian would say and wink at me. "She's just an old miser. We've all gotten quite used to her. She does have a good heart, though, god bless her."

I was too grateful for their own generosity and complete acceptance of me to oppose them and point out how bad she had treated me. Their love overbalanced her abhorrence greatly.

My first kill was not an action with premeditation and deliberation. However, as I had also said before, it had started something deep inside of me, which would never go away. Something, which would only grow as the time went on, reaching the heights of unbelievable proportions. Heights so great that some people refused to believe, even though in their hearts they knew it to be true.

It was on a rather drab and drizzly Sunday afternoon that I was left alone in the big house with nothing to do. I had grown tired of practicing piano and reading, at which I had dutifully spend a few hours earlier in the day. I wished the rain would stop and I'd be able to go out riding, taking with me a few of the favourite beagle hounds, hoping for a stray rabbit or a lost fox to cross my path and the dogs would give chase, howling desperately and scaring everything in sight, which I always enjoyed immensely.

I sat in the drawing room, staring out the window, so deep in my thoughts that I didn't hear Miss Redfern enter.

"You vile creature," she croaked, startling me. "Your brothers work themselves half to death and all you do is sit around like a fat rat, with no good thoughts in your thick head, I would wager!" She screeched. Were she to find me reading or doing anything more productive than fantasizing, she would still have thought me impudent and lazy, good for nothing intruder. I have been in the household for five years now, and no matter how hard I tried, there was just no way of pleasing her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Redfern." I said politely and smiled.

"Talking back at me, are you?" Her eyes narrowed and she sniffed loudly. "You don't fool me, boy! You might be able to do so with the good men in this house, but I haven't fallen off an apple tree yesterday. I know you and your kind!"

I got up, slipped past her and without affording her another glance walked out of the room. As was her habit she did not drop the subject. I heard the swishing of her skirts following me, her high-pitched voice impudently stabbing my ears.

"Yes, that's right. I know you and your kind!" She repeated herself. "And I know the kinds of your mother, too! Don't you go thinking I don't."

I paused for a moment. She had talked about my mother before, but for some reason this particular day there seemed to be a different tone to her voice.

"I know what she did for a living!" I could have sworn I heard a sound of spitting. "If that's what you call a living, that is."

Ignoring her poisonous words I continued up the tall staircase, skipping two stairs at the time, wishing to reach my room and close the door, hopefully keeping her out of my sight.

"She was a whore, your mother was!" she screamed hysterically. "A rat like every other in London. She whored with the old master and slipped you to him like a cuckoo bird. She is probably not even dead. I would bet my life she is bonking some drunken bastard right now, at this very moment, expecting you to return with all the riches you can steal from this honest family."

I tried to ignore her. Honest, I did. What surprised me were the ugly words that she had been using. Obscenities were never a part of her vocabulary, she was obviously highly agitated.

"A bastard, just like you!" Her voice seemed to have a life of its own. It was like a whip, beating against my brain, making my head hurt.

"I wouldn't put it past her if she spread her legs for you, too. She is that much of a whore, I reckon!" She said and I could feel her close behind me, her body almost touching mine. We were at the top of the staircase, I had reached the landing, and she was but a step away.

I turned around, convinced that she was ready to hit me, pull my hair or in some other way hurt me physically and in order to prevent her from doing so, I pushed my hands against her, unaware of the consequences of my actions. At least, I have been telling myself that ever since.

She lost her balance and for a moment she seemed suspended in the air, her feet on the edge of a stair, slowly tipping over, her upper body pulling her weight backwards. Everything slowed down as if in a drunken haze. Her words and screams were like a distant thunder, I couldn't make out what she was saying, but I could see a true terror in her face. Her eyes were wide open, as if ready to pop out. Her hands started circling around and around, as if she was a big windmill, trying hard to keep her balance.

Despite the fear in her face, the hatred never left it and that was what made me push her again, this time forcefully and deliberately, killing any hope of a last moment's grasp onto the railing. She extended her arms towards me, her fingers bent into claws, whether in a futile hope of rescue or attempt to take me with her, I do not know.

She fell backwards, her feet flipping high up and over her head, the gravity dragging her body behind them and like a big ball, she bounced down the steps, a sickening sound of bones breaking thundered in my ears. It seemed to me like she was rolling down the staircase forever, although it couldn't have been more than a few seconds.

Miss Redfern landed at the bottom of some thirty stairs with a loud thud. Both arms were flung over the head; her legs were spread far apart in a position I am willing to bet she would not want anyone to see. I heard soft moaning and had flown down the stairs, although I wasn't sure what possessed me to do that.

I knelt next to her and placed the palm of my hand flat on her chest to feel for a heartbeat. Her eyes fluttered open and the hatred was gone, only the pain and fear remained.

"Help me," she croaked in a voice so low I could barely hear it.

I was scared out of my wits, my own body trembling uncontrollably. I didn't know whether I was going to pass out or vomit. I noticed a small trickle of blood seeping out of her nostril, and the image of my mother's face flashed before me. She was not as lucky as this miserable creature. My mother had been beaten severely, probably feeling most of the blows to her head and small body, leaving unbelievable bruises all over her pale skin.

Miss Redfern, this evil woman was laying in front of me, broken like a china doll, blood slowly oozing off her face and onto the carpet, sponging into it and creating a growing dark stain. I looked around in panic, but no one was about. Sunday afternoons were a day off for the household help and my brothers were out and about their own business.

It was but a split second decision that exploded rather than grew in my mind. If I waited for others to return or had ran out for help, she would tell on me. I believed that were she allowed to give them her side of the story, that would have been an end to my comfortable life in the country. I would have been stuffed in prison or in the worst case they would have rushed me to an asylum, and I would have been done for life. I couldn't face that. My childlike mind could not reason with reality. I only saw the worst of the possibilities.

Despite my fear and downright terror over the woman who was obviously dying right in front of my eyes, I was interested in what she would have looked like inside. Was her heart blackened with hatred? If I were to slit her belly, would evil have sprung out as if I had cracked the Pandora's box open? I didn't know, but wouldn't have been surprised if it did happen.

My mind raced like mad, and I was torn between helping Miss Redfern, carrying her to the divan in the drawing room from which she had just chased me with her poisonous tongue, or running to the nearest farm, asking for help. I felt completely alone in the world. I knew that whatever I did next would decide my fate forever. If I was to help her or just leave her be, she might survive and I had no doubts that eventually she would turn on me, spicing her tale with lies, which might have been the end of me.

There was just one thing I could do to save myself. I had to finish her off, but when one is faced with a situation like that, especially if one is a little more than a child, the decision to do so can be impossible to envision. How does one kill a person?

"Help me, Edward." She moaned and I could see the fingers of one hand twitching, still half closed into a claw, which only moments earlier tried to grab onto me. Had she succeeded, we both would have been laying here, our blood mixing, our limbs undoubtedly intertwined in a grotesque display.

"Where does it hurt?" I asked and she closed her eyes. She had trouble breathing I could see that. Each time she inhaled a sound like a broken flute whistled in her throat, exhales resembling the bubbling of the boiling water.

"Every...where..." she finally replied, her entire body spasming, her face cringing into an ugly mask of pain.

"Here?" I asked and gently pushed against her stomach, pressing her obviously broken spine against the carpet.

She couldn't scream, yet her eyes flew wide open and a gurgle was mixed with a moan so odd, I would have been looking for a monster under my bed, were I to be awoken from sleep by that exact sound.

"Stop..." she whispered and a flood of bright red blood flushed out of her wide open mouth. "Please..."

"Does it hurt here?" I asked, feeling the wooziness and fear inside of me dissipating, only to be replaced by a calm, almost clinical detachment from the horrors of the situation, exploring as if I was on the verge of a great discovery. I placed my hand on her chest, not touching her breasts and again pressed down, this time with a bit more strength added.

She did manage to scream now. It was a sound of desperation and unbelievable pain, terror and realization that I was not going to help after all, but torture her like she always wished she could have tortured me.

"What about your legs?" I asked and for the first time noticed that one of them was twisted at a sickening angle, obviously broken. I lifted her skirts some, expecting to see a bump, and it had taken me a moment to realize that her bone had popped through the skin and was now sticking out, its sharp edges covered in blood, which was oozing onto the dress.

Nausea hit me and even though I wanted to cause her physical pain, I couldn't. Thinking about it nowadays, I regret being so weak and not taking the charge of the situation like I had wanted to. At the same time, I believe that somewhere in my head I knew I had to be careful. If I did this one right, I could learn from it. I wasn't planning on continuing with acts of killing at that time, but somewhere in my subconscious mind, a small fire of terror turned to excitement must have ignited.