His Sour Lemon #2.1

Part 8: Guilt Eating Away With Regret

CHAPTER 8: Guilt Eating Away With Regret

April 19th, 2028.
9:17 am, Outskirts of New York City, America.
Fitzgerald Orphanage, Range Recruitment Centre.

His silver irises stared me down in a dark, lethal manner as he sat at the other side of the long table while the woman who sat next to him, dark blonde hair and ice blue eyes, wearing an expensive gown while the man sported an expensive suit. I was stilled to silence as I reached for the bread placed in front of me and raised it to my lips, "You still haven't explained to me who he is, Oswald?" The woman says, harshly. I flinch at the sound of her voice.

I haven't heard many females, or when I did, they were little girls...only a couple days before they all die. The woman in front of me always wore something exposing her breasts, which is why I never looked at her. It didn't seem like the man next to her cared, "Edmund." He says my name.

I snap my crusted eyes up, he scrutinises me, "How's the food?"

I nod silently.

He slams his hand on the table, "Speak!" He snaps at me.

I stiffen, "It's good, sir." I spoke to him like he asked and earned an even deeper look than before. The time he sat in front of me when he drove me here, to central London was a long breath of freedom for me. I couldn't contain my want to look outside the window, to feel the wheels roll and the word they used was it 'accelerated' forward, prowling along concrete.

I knew concrete.

Rat infested. The blood of too many children much like me, shackled down...much...like...me.

"Do you know who I am?" Oswald Creed. The lady said his first name and he was introduced inside the mansion with his last name...'Welcome Mr Creed'-it had said. Yet I shake my head, I knew his name, but the meaning behind it was far more different. He was a man of money, authoritarian domination, with the way he treated the lady. Like she was what she showed. Pleasure. I've seen them kiss before. It wasn't a pretty sight, it wasn't something I wanted to see, because it didn't look wanted. Not by the lady at least.

"No, sir."

He stands slowly and struts around the table, I flinch and hop off the chair, falling to the floor, the lady stands, "What the hell?" She spits, looking at me oddly.

The man steps around the chair slowly, "Shut up, Charlize. Look at his wrists and ankles, and look at his eyes. Edmund, stand." He says to me. I swallow, still holding the bread as I wince into a slow stand and he lowers down, hands raised in surrender.

"I've made many hints as to what my name is, Edmund. You already know it." He says to me, stoically.

I purse my lips, he smirks, "Oswald Creed." I murmur, in a croak.

He hands me the glass of water on the table and stands, "Good, you're not a complete imbecile. Have Nicolas show you to your room and you are to stay there, no wondering until you read the clock for lunch, which is Twelve-thirty. You will be punished if you leave the room, understand?" I nod quickly to his voice.

He narrows his eyes, "Edmund." He says my name once.

"Yes, sir."