~~1880, December the Twenty-Fourth
I awoke with a sense of calm. I dressed quickly and made for the foyer and opened the front door myself (most of the staff has left at any rate) right as the next "delivery" was made. Heaven preserve us, the Irish have landed. I assume they won't stay much longer as Father and the actors, pardon me, Lords have drunk most of the spirits that were left. I don't even hear their great wailing pipes any longer, such is the state of my head.
I hate him. Oh, I hate him so. If I saw him I would pluck out every hair on his head, smash those ridiculous glasses into a thousand tiny pieces, and then choke him on his own paper filled with his bloody, buggery, hateful, horrid, stupid little words! Once he was dead, I would then proceed to rip his arms from his body and beat him about the head with his own limbs. I would drag his torso through the great heap of muck that was created in our back atrium, commission the dancers and thespians to leap about his body, smashing every bone into bits, then deposit the entire bloody mess at his mother's feet.
Oh, ho, the things I would do to her. To dare speak to me the way she did... To completely ignore the madness her son is causing... It is inexusable.
Things I Would Wish Upon an Old Crone's Head, by Cecily Navisham.
I wish for her to fall over clutching her chest in pain, no. no, I wish that she would break all of her limbs while tripping over her own stupid cat. That she lay in her own filth and putrescence for days with no one calling on her. That her mind would slowly crack watching her own life's blood seep from her many wounds and have the knowledge that not one person will care about her when she is gone. That even her own foolish son will not care for her. And I wish that it would HURT.
And all of this has upset me so much that the lovely color that normally brightens my complexion (I've ALWAYS been told I have the most delicate rose-petal skin) is gone. Surely he won't deviate from that damnable song and all will end on the morrow?