Chapter 1

They call me a sadist. I beg to differ.

I still remember the days when I used to play the piano down at Gotham's place. I was known for my passion for music. Beethoven, Vivaldi, Mozart or Bach – I had them all at my fingertips. The applause that followed each performance of mine at those rich social gatherings still resounds in my ears. None had any complaints against me then, although my mother used to prophesy that my ill-tempered nature wuold cause my ruin one day. (Giggle) Old folks always speak like that. When you ignore my ideologies you are bound to lose up on your crockery and mirrors. After all, all the expenditure accounting for me were two square meals a day, some clothes, the LPs, and a few broken pieces of crockery and glass, which I used to clean up myself. Nobody ever knew where these debris disappeared, save for me and the falling population of cattle and other subhuman life, which were mere victims in my games of gore. The neighbourhood feared the presence of an unholy, unspoken-of spirit who was responsible for the brutal slaughter of their livestock, and I used to bask in the glory in all anonymity.

 

We used to live in a shabby abode south of Stratford-me, my mother, and my uncle. If there was something missing in this family picture of mine, it was because my father had been brutally murdered in front of my juvenile eyes by a gang of drunken b******s. After that, we shifted from the dark streets of London to this warm place in the countryside, where my mother did embroidery for a livelihood and my uncle worked in the stable of the Smiths. I was picked up by the Gothams to play music for them. They paid me little, but I was content in stroking the chords for them all day long. There was really nothing to complain of.

 

Then one day I saw my uncle with the grocer's daughter Madéline. Oh a damsel she was! Cheeks redder than the morning rose and eyes, a set of the bluest pearls. Her long hair was a poem written in ink stolen from the evening sky. And her voice bore the freshness of the morning dew. She was the lady of my dreams. Many a night have I lain awake, imagining myself walking with her on the banks of the Avon on a clear moonlit night, her hand in mine and her head gently rested on my shoulders, while Ludwig van played away in the distance. Many a solemn oath have I uttered in my dreams to lead a life of complete allegiance to her kind soul. And here stood my uncle, exchanging amorous glances with her, in front of my own eyes. There was no way I could let such state state of things continue.

 

That night I went into my uncle's study. He was leaning over some treatise on Anglo-Saxon literature. I tapped him on his shoulder. He turned to me. I knived him. Six inches of pure Romanian steel went straight through his heart. As he let out his last shriek, I felt the warm blood spurt out. It felt heavenly.

 

Before the police arrived, I was implored to fly off by my mother. I was sure that I would be able to explain the situation to the administration and make a reasonable settlement. After all, I had to woo Madéline as well. But my mother just wouldn't listen. So I left for London under the dark night sky, promising my heart and the memory of my Lady Love that I would return soon, to lift her off her feet.

Reviews

[Christina Harper: Sitti..]

"Her long hair was a poem written in ink stolen from the evening sky." If you had written that poetic for the entirety of the whole thing, I think I might have fainted from the sheer genius. But, alas, you did not, and I felt there was something missing from that. You start off talking about your protagonist's vast knowledge of music, but you don't really explain why you had to mention that. Maybe that comes in later on, but I just couldn't make a correlation. The grammar was alright except for you used too many bland sentences. The only true grammar error I saw was in this line: "There was no way I could let such state state of things continue." Consider writing "There was no way I could let this state of things continue."