I am a man who chooses to live as a recluse; independent of society. ‘Others’ are some abstract notion far in the distance; sometimes they’re a persistent hum that I can choose not to hear. They rarely divide into individual physical forms. Those that do are like dark waves rising from the immenseness of the sea, to knock you flying.
I am wealthy enough to be governed only by my own morals and amongst them there is one principle alone I stick to: anything you want from people can be bought. So you understand I’m therefore in a position of great power.
I choose to live alone, with one exception; I own a young boy. Yes, OWN. Under the guise of altruistic intentions, I rescued him from an impoverished home. I admit this was an incredibly mean trick to play because he’ll soon realize that his new home is far filthier! I rescued this starving innocent with the intention of giving him a taste of everything.
Oh what a master he has. Some would call him lucky, some who are as perverse as I, or perhaps those who are ignorant like his parents and believe he’ll lead a good life.
You see I wanted someone pure. Life has barely scarred the dear creature as after a year of keeping him he turned 11 only last week. I am going to weave darkness through the whiteness of his being, I am going to be the heavy imprint of life, scattering blemish, bruise and tears as if they were seeds. And with him being so young, there is hope that he will eventually bloom into something that I have created – my true heir – as bitter and devious as I. He will be beautiful and dangerous. Unlike those disregarded souls, he will be idolized and hated, trigger obsession and imitation. Moral women will be hate him and yet be rivals over him and this will lead to disgrace, mortified at their own lust.
But let’s not focus on the future when there is enough to delight us in the present. For now, I have the enjoyable job of drawing the beast out of the boy. I call him by the way Leonard, though I don’t recall ever asking him is name.
I like to torment young Leonard. Part of my motivation is my memories of myself as a boy and how much I’d have enjoyed it. I always craved such darkness and although I would be unaware of such an urge I desired the very ruin of myself. I wanted to be corrupted.
This boy is so pretty. And he’s pale, you see, like a porcelain doll. He looks just as fragile too, which simply makes me long to break him. I’ve noticed with affection how his hazel hair falls over his eyes a little and he never cares to move it away. He seems to want to hide his eyes.
He’s quite effeminate in his innocence. He holds his thin body a little awkwardly, always fidgeting in my presence. When he does this I sometimes stare harder at him and his gaze always lowers to the floor, shy of me.
He hardly speaks. But then, for what reason would I permit it?! Perhaps in later days, when he’s old enough to reflect I’ll ask him to recite these days to me. He’ll no longer be the boy I want but he can help relive the pleasure I experience from him now. He might recite it with hate or exaggerate my cruelty, but that will make his story all the more entertaining.
I often wonder what he dreams about in all his silent time – where does he go in his mind? Does he escape me? He is lost within himself, this child, all of the time. It frustrates me at times that no matter what power I have over him, I can’t open him up and peer inside.
I also question at times if he is as pure as he appears? And occasionally I imagine that he isn’t, though this is all fantasy. Regardless, he belongs to me. And he owes me everything, his life. His every action should be dedicated to my pleasure.
He sleeps so softly; I’ve stood at his door, admiring him as I contemplate my next plan to violate him. When I sit alone, knowing this child is safe beneath the covers, warm and pure, I suddenly get an impulsive desire to steal away all his feelings of security in the cruellest way I can imagine. So I sometimes call him from his bed late at night.
He then stands before me in his night clothes and I look at him with indifference, concealing this passion that torments me as I begin to torment him. All I see are good intentions and hope in his eyes. After all this time he has retained his purity. One day I will truly infect him.
I can sense when he feels uneasy with my advances, my touches or the glint in my eyes. To see him suddenly look trapped – it pleased me all the more. He would often seem to forget that we are the only residents here, and he’d look about him as if he half expected someone to rescue him. Perhaps he was naïve enough not to believe that injustice prevails behind closed doors, that goodness triumphs always. I engaged in the correction of such a fallacy by imparting the wisdom of life upon him.
There are times I pretend to comfort him, stroke his soft hair; it curls almost past his chin and has a shine to it that women would be envious of. I whisper words intended to soothe. But this I do, only to be close enough to the scent and skin of this trusting boy. He is quite needful of tenderness and yet recently he has begun to feel distrustful of it. Evidently I have given him inner conflict already; a proud pain stroke on this perfect piece of art I am creating.
Once I toyed with him and took his hand as I would a lady, and kissed it with my head bowed. The look in his eyes was alarm. Since that morning – as I had deemed it a special greeting – I now kiss his hand every morning (and if I am especially pleased with him I would turn his pale hand over and place my lips on his palm instead to show my gratitude). Recently, he has come to respond to this gesture in a similar to how most ladies would – shyness and grace twinned with a subtle inner smile that he hopes I won’t notice (but shines subtly from his eyes). This is surely a sign that his chaste nature is altering, re-shaping itself and now I’m half inclined to believe that he looks forward to this display of affection.
When I am displeased with him I slap him then hard in the face. The first time I did so he fell to the floor and lay face down momentarily. When he stumbled to his feet he glared at me with his dark eyes through the hair that hung over them as if he wanted to scream “I hate you”. The audacious, beautiful creature, attempting to be wilful even in his silence! Lust surged through me and it took all of my strength to not force myself upon to him. But I had realised all the same that he needed to be scolded. He would half expect it from me as his master and I would lose his respect if I did not punish him.
I had considered, prior to this event, that I should move slowly with him all the same. A little fear is healthy but I could not risk him rebelling completely against me and turning in to a virtuous saint in his adulthood and declare me – the demon – the cause of his path to righteousness. I dreaded such a possibility.
So I did not give in to my passions that time but allowed them only a small outlet in his punishment. I rose from my chair to look down on him now. He was brave in his boyish anger. In eagerness to admire his face I gently tucked a ringlet of hair behind his ear. Then I lowered my hand roughly to his throat as if to strangle him. I saw fear quickly flicker in his eyes before they turned glassy with tears. I eased the force of my hand and tilted his head to side, revealing the pure white skin of his neck. I would be the first to taint it. I slowly licked it. He squirmed. I was aware of the smell of my breath lingering on his skin. He had been marked by my scent and I knew well that the unclean feelings he experienced at that moment would linger and be rekindled whenever he was close to me.
I then allowed him to go to bed, satisfied that there was no wilfulness left in the child, only the nausea of his repulsion for me.
I will tell you now that I dragged out his disgrace with thorough planning, attentive to all the details. Sometimes I subdued my impatient urges in order to carry out a more rewarding plot. Primarily, my aim was to ensure that regardless of any hostility or disgust he felt towards me, he would always know the pull of all the things I’d shown him.
I decided that I would spend a year preparing him, tenderizing him, before the final indulgence. I would demonstrate my love with only the warmth of my hands and mouth.
And in time he grew to want me, with the same intensity as he hated me. On his eleventh birthday, after a year in my home, he returned my forceful kiss. Still eager to have power over him I pressed him against the wall, his breath knocked from him.
Each day I relive the moment that commenced but to describe it explicitly to you would be to take away its charm.
That boy I violated and now he grows more like me by the day, my power diminishing as he does so, vampirically draining my life but I cannot resist my allure. It is inevitable that one day the roles will truly reverse and I will be the innocent; but oh how I crave it! As an old man my thoughts will be simply the deep, amplified tremor of his actions. I will be rocked and swayed by his storms. He will give me my last breath.
Yes, soon he will know all my secrets, and will have taken all I have to offer him. And then he may live how he chooses. It served me well to live so independently from civilised society and I expect he will follow suit. You then face no slander or punishment for a narcissistic and amoral life.