A solid soul and the blood I bleed
The brotherhood had failed. There was nothing left in this burnt out shell. The building's walls smelt of mold and the paint peeled. Mortimer peeled a banana as he surveyed what was left. The rooms he had already been through brought nothing but painful childhood memories to Mortimer. His father had been a duke of the brotherhood and showed Mortimer as little mercy with his upbringing as he did with all those that ranked below him on these worn thin floorboards. His father had shown him a modicum of pride when Mortimer had been elected to the head of student council but this faltered and was withdrawn when Mortimer had neglected what Machiavelli had written. Mortimer preferred Dickens.
He arrived at his late fathers office and strode wearily to his desk. Barr the dust, it was immaculate. He opened a drawer to find a polished revolver from the start of the century. Mortimer wondered why he had chosen to leap when an option such as this existed. Surely it is more heroic to go out with a bang Mortimer reasoned, but then he never really understood the simple intricacies involved in a mind ruled by pride. The revolver felt heavy, weighed down by the guilt ridden memories of it's past. The pain it caused seemed etched into the delicate engravings of floral patterns down the stock.
The romance of a gunfighter had worn off for Mortimer, his father had seen to that. The emptiness that lied behind his eyes was a practiced void that stood on principals laid out by dead men. His father never questioned the brotherhood yet the brotherhood constantly questioned him, as they do with all their trained killers. A trained killer is an awful thing to go wrong. His father remained loyal to the point of falling with the secret society.
What was curious was the only thing found on his father's person was a picture of Mortimer. A picture of Mortimer in his youth, before he confronted his father with his own evil. Before he held a mirror up and then pointed out every scar on his weathered soul. It took all the courage in the world to do this and the steely gaze that was returned is a linchpin to the cumulative portrait of his father that remains.
His remains were taken away in secret, the funeral also under lock and key. His father's life remains a complete mystery to Mortimer, though as he held the polished revolver he felt connected. Connected to all the lives it had taken, but also connected to the part of his father's life that he had always shamed away from himself. He felt his father's buried guilt. Just for a moment Mortimer felt the dozens of lives. That weight that Mortimer saw pulled through the living room into the kitchen every morning Mortimer lifted. To his surprise, for the first time in his life, Mortimer felt like a man.
He arrived at his late fathers office and strode wearily to his desk. Barr the dust, it was immaculate. He opened a drawer to find a polished revolver from the start of the century. Mortimer wondered why he had chosen to leap when an option such as this existed. Surely it is more heroic to go out with a bang Mortimer reasoned, but then he never really understood the simple intricacies involved in a mind ruled by pride. The revolver felt heavy, weighed down by the guilt ridden memories of it's past. The pain it caused seemed etched into the delicate engravings of floral patterns down the stock.
The romance of a gunfighter had worn off for Mortimer, his father had seen to that. The emptiness that lied behind his eyes was a practiced void that stood on principals laid out by dead men. His father never questioned the brotherhood yet the brotherhood constantly questioned him, as they do with all their trained killers. A trained killer is an awful thing to go wrong. His father remained loyal to the point of falling with the secret society.
What was curious was the only thing found on his father's person was a picture of Mortimer. A picture of Mortimer in his youth, before he confronted his father with his own evil. Before he held a mirror up and then pointed out every scar on his weathered soul. It took all the courage in the world to do this and the steely gaze that was returned is a linchpin to the cumulative portrait of his father that remains.
His remains were taken away in secret, the funeral also under lock and key. His father's life remains a complete mystery to Mortimer, though as he held the polished revolver he felt connected. Connected to all the lives it had taken, but also connected to the part of his father's life that he had always shamed away from himself. He felt his father's buried guilt. Just for a moment Mortimer felt the dozens of lives. That weight that Mortimer saw pulled through the living room into the kitchen every morning Mortimer lifted. To his surprise, for the first time in his life, Mortimer felt like a man.