Charles

~~~

It all happened 2 days ago.

It seemed a day like every other. My father was meant to have an important meeting, but he had those every other month. Later people said that there was not a single sign that anything was off.

For me, it was a very special day. It was the day when I murdered the man who had ruined my life the moment I was born. The day I committed one of the most horrible sins this world has seen. The day I killed my father.

If I write like that, I already seem insane.

But nevermind that. I failed. The plan was to get rid of the woman, too. I had decided to let my half-brother live, - he was never cruel to me like the other two.

I managed to trap my father in his room before setting the mansion on fire. Good thing no one noticed me doing it, because I didn't realize that the God-forsaken bitch of a woman wasn't in there with him.

I realized my mistake only when, after we all were evacuated, I was approached by her to tell me that Mark was looking for me. Her usually cold and angular face was covered in tears. At first, I was shaken that she was still alive. The waves of rage started to roll over my body, and I had half the mind to strangle her with my bare hands right then and there. But then she collapsed in the dewy grass, her face in her hands, sobbing violently. I couldn't tell if it was fear, general distress, or if she already knew that her husband was most certainly dead - I took care of that, - but all the anger within me was suddenly gone. She was a broken, old woman, and at this point I'd be doing her a favour by ending her life. As I looked down at her in pity, I couldn't help but smile in my head, thinking how she would suffer for the rest of her life because of what I accomplished tonight.

My thoughts were soon interrupted by Mark though. He rushed over to us, paler than a candle, and kneeled next to his mother, hugging her over the shoulders, trying to comfort her. As she cried in his arms, Mark, my dear brother, looked up at me with fear in his eyes.

For a second, I thought that he knew. I thought that he knew what I did, and that's why he was scared. He thought I'd come for him next. But I was mistaken.

His fear wasn't of me, - it was for me. As he looked up at me, his face lit by the fire raging in the mansion that I used to call home, he shouted at me to run. Get a horse and run. He said that the townspeople were blaming me for the fire, that they thought if it wasn't me who started it, then it was at least the bad luck of having a bastard in your home. He told me to run and hide in our summer-house. He promised to come and make sure I'm okay.

And I ran.

Now, in retrospect, I regret doing so. For multiple reasons, too.

Caught in the moment, I wasn't able to think clearly. I don't know what threw me off, - whether it was the smoke from the fire, or the terror in Mark's face, - but I didn't consider that me running away the way I did would only increase everyone's suspicions.

Yesterday night, as I lay sleepless in bed, a thought sunk into my mind. Did Mark know that my running off would likely make my situation worse? Was that his plan all along? Is that why he still hasn't come to check in on me? It's been two days since the fire. I've been trapped in our summer house, completely alone, and I can feel my sanity starting to become a bit flaky. That's why I started this journal, afterall. The silence, loneliness, and the thoughts, - oh god all those thoughts, - it all slowly chips away at the clarity of my mind.

I think I shouldn't stay inside all the time. It's dangerous for one's mental stability.

I'm going to take a break from writing and go breathe in some air.