| The Worlds Revolve by Dark Eyed Seer |
| Chapter #6 - The Man Who Sold the World |
| (Author's Note: O.K, I've sort of accepted the fact that there is no interest in this story. I've been avoiding it like the plague because it's pretty depressing to pour your heart into something and find only one or two people read it. That being said, my precious few reviewers have my heart and soul and I'm writing this for you. I don't know if I'll finish, I've written the story out in my head a thousand times, but for each of the people that bothered to write to me, I'm going to give it a go. Let's rock and roll.) Present Day. Spike considered glossing over his brief life as a human being. He thought about starting the story where she had asked, with his first Slayer in China. But you cannot begin a story anywhere but the beginning. “When I was five, my mother decided I should join the church choir. We were Papists, pretty rare in England at the time. You call us Catholics….” * * * London, 1862. A small boy knelt before the alter in an ornate church. Dressed in white robes the child was ethereal, his blonde curls almost angelic and highlighted by the morning sun streaming through the stained glass windows. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been two hours since my last confession.” The boy was solemn in prayer and a desperate fervor grips his small body. “I have been a temptation to Father O'Neal and I would like very much to stop. Please help me fight the Devil inside me. Let me be a temptation no longer-“ “Only heretics masking themselves as the devote confess to God and ask for something in return, William.” The boy went rigid and nearly fell forward onto the worn floor. “God cannot help where the Devil has taken ownership.” The middle-aged priest steps forward and knelt behind the child. He pulled him slowly backward across his lap. “God cannot help you, William. You are already lost. Something weak in you allowed the Devil in and you've damned us both.” The priest's large hand slid between the boys legs and squeezed. The boy's face is blank and the grown man rubs his private parts and grinds himself against the small body. I've damned us both, William thought. * * * London, 1862 Nine-year-old William carefully fixed the color of his dress suit. It was black. He was going to his first funeral. It was his sister's. Victoria had been sick as long as he could remember. It was consumption. William didn't know what that was but it had been whispered around the house often enough that he had picked it up. William quietly walked down the hall to his sister's room and touched the books on the shelf. 'Alice in Wonderland' had been her favourite and consequently William's as well. Victoria had read it to him over and over. She had read the chapter about the tea party just yesterday. She won't ever do that again. The thought struck William suddenly and he had to sit down on the floor quickly. When they had told him his sister was dead he had nodded and held his mother's hand. It had only hit him now. She wasn't coming back. Not ever. She would never ask him to braid her hair, or turn her beautiful green eyes on him in mirth and tell him how funny he was. She would never read aloud with her sweet voice or play a duet with him on the piano. They would never arrange a battle on the quilts with William's tin soldiers or go to the seaside and built castles in the sand. William suddenly wanted to be with Victoria, wherever she was. He didn't want to be here alone with mother and father. His mother was alternately clingy and dismissive and his father was sharp with him more often then not. Since yesterday they had turned into ghosts. William cried but tried very hard not to. His father said boys did not cry, that it was simply not done. Crying was left to babies, girls and women. Was William any of these things? No? Then he was not allowed to cry. But this did not make the tears stop. The quilts smelled of violet water and menthol. They smelled of his sister. “William!” His father's booming voice made him jump. Henry Merchant stood in the doorway, dressed in black. His face was dark and his lips pulled back in a sneer of contempt. “I'll not have you upsetting your mother carrying on this way.” Henry gripped his shoulder and jerked him up off the floor. William bit his lip hard enough to draw blood to avoid calling out in pain as he was forcibly marched down the hall. * * * William came home early from choir practice that day. Father O'Neil was at another parish on church business and William felt on top of the world. Everything would go back to the way it was in just two days but he had escaped today and he was willing to take what he could get. He burst into the silent house, it was a day off for Cook but there were jam tarts in the pantry just for him. His mother was at tea with Mrs. Willoughby so he could have as many as he liked. As he made a beeline for the kitchen he froze, noticing his father's coat and umbrella on the rack. He tiptoed towards the study, praying his father was in a good mood. Things had been tenser than usual in the household for the past three weeks. Victoria's death had sapped what little happiness had been in the house. William could not laugh, or play too loudly without a quick swat or a boxing of his ears when he had just gotten shouted at before for such small transgressions. He called out, “Papa?” There was no response. He licked his lips and turned the knob as quietly as possible. He almost jumped back when he made out his father's form in the dim light, but the man didn't move. William stepped forward in confusion, the drapes where tightly drawn in the middle of the day. He made his way towards his father but slipped. Something wet was all over the floor. Had his father dropped the ink well? He was sure to be cross if he had. He must be asleep and not have noticed. William decided to clean it up for him so he wouldn't get upset. The boy carefully wiped the hand that had been soaked on his handkerchief and opened the drapes just a crack so he could see what he was doing. The handkerchief caught the light and William froze. His father did not use red ink. Henry considered all colored inks to be a waste of money when black would do nicely. William felt queasy and cold all of a sudden. He drew the handkerchief to his nose and smelled it. Instead of the chemical smell of his father's fountain pen he was greeted with a cloying metallic scent. William looked over at his father's figure on the desk chair. His hands shook as he reached up and pulled the drapes open completely. William's eyes refused to take in what he was seeing. His brain would not process what was in the room. The back of his father's head was gone. Where did it go? How was his father supposed to go to work without the back of his head? His hats wouldn't fit. William knew deep down that his father would not be going to work anymore, but he was suddenly very concerned about his hats. His father's pistol was in his hand still, resting on the desk. William had never been permitted to touch it and he gave it a wide berth now. When he heard Cook come in the servant's entrance, William calmly exited his father's study and shut the door behind him. His mother would be home soon. He mustn't upset her with his carrying on. He walked into the kitchen and Cook turned around and screamed at the sight of him, a boy of nine, small for his age, covered in blood. “I think father needs a doctor. He's hurt himself.” * * * |