In the following days, Emmanuel continued the second part of his story.

"I had been the school whore for two years before Charles, my brother, heard of it. He was in a different academy, so news hadn't traveled to him back then. Now I realized it must've being because I was his brother that people didn't speak to him about me, so when he found out, his reaction was unexpected."

"What happened?"

"I had been scared, I thought he might've hated me, that he would've fought me, or worse, avoided me. However, he didn't. The moment he heard of the news he came back to school, dressed sharply in his coat and top hat, and the first thing after he marched into the headmaster's office in broad daylight was break his jaw."

"He did?"

Emmanuel had grown used to Blair's interruptions, so he nodded.

"Yes, he did. Now can I go on? Thank you.

"Charles went and socked the headmaster repeatedly, after after breaking his jaw, kicked his groin and broke his knees as well as one, or two fingers. Teeth fell, too, but that was expected of the headmaster's age. The ugly man looked even more hideous after that, if you could imagine. And despite multiple people pulling Charles away, he still managed all that damage, and he broke a number of trophies in the office.

"Well, as expected, news traveled, and the Duke and Duchess were devastated. Charles and I were taken out of our according academies. We were both given harsh beatings and punishments at home. The children didn't even dare call Charles 'The Ripper' anymore. He had surpassed his own title.

"I had thought Charles would be ashamed of me, but he wasn't. He told me to tell him of everything, and although I had made a pact to never trouble Charles with my troubles, I couldn't hold it in the at the moment. For the first time I could remember, I cried, without hiding it, and I was glad he was there.

"I told him of the heinous years at the academy; the boys who assaulted me; the headmaster and his threats; and before I realized it, I spoke about the duchess, too, which was both of our's ultimate downfall.

"Like the good brother he was, he fought with the duchess. The nights were nightmarish, as both threw items at each other and the servants held Charles back and then he was thrown into the attic again. The duke and duchess thought of the best plan of action, as now all of England knew of what Charles did to the headmaster and they had kept Charles out of jail by the skin of their necks.

"Back then Charles and I were only but nineteen and eighteen, respectively, therefore the best plan of action was to send him to France. It had been a dream of his to study there, and although the Duke and Duchess had been reluctant to send him there at first, for they believed art was a sin, but it was the perfect opportunity after he caused such a scandal.

"So off to France Charles went, and I was under house arrest. At this period, I had also began to found out my mother was thrown in a mental asylum. At first, I heard it from the duke and duchess's younger children, and thought they were merely jesting, or trying to upset me. They were always tyrannizing Charles and I, so I paid it no mind at first, but then I saw the concerned faces of the maids and others who used to work beside my mother.

"They knew of her fate, and were scared they would soon meet the same demise, and soon the house was full of their hushed conversations. I knew of the mental asylum she was locked up in, and I decided to set out and see her again. Looking back, it was naive of me, but at the time, I must've imagined our reunion would solve something. Maybe everything."

Blair swallowed, fingers hurting from how hard he was holding the fountain pen, and clenched his jaw.

"I escaped the house one day," Emmanuel continued, "bringing with me some stolen money, and then I rode a train, took a carriage, and finally met my mother again after thirteen long years."

Emmanuel had started walking about the room again, and now he was at the window. He stood there, and looked out at the camellias once again. It was the only sight that soothed him anymore.

"I asked for my mother. I told them I was her son. They told me—" his voice cracked, "they told me she cried for her son all these years. All thirteen years."

"When I finally saw her, I could hardly recognize her—my own mother! Once so beautiful, with long, lustrous black locks, now tangled and cut short like a boy's, so skinny her bones protruded, and her eyes half-blind from crying, and they rolled about in her eye sockets, but she could not see me. She nervously went up to me, and reached out a hand, to touch me, then drew back. And did you know what was the first thing she said to me in thirteen years?"

"What did she say?" Blair asked, tongue heavily. Emmanuel's voice was soft.

"She said, 'Will you hit me?'"

Blair was quiet.

"She asked me if I would hit her. I said I wouldn't, but she trembled, and she said I wasn't her son. She said he was smaller, that his voice wasn't this deep. She said I must be one of the guards, here to hurt her again, she—she start bawling, then the guards pulled her away again. I stood there and watched, for I could not longer recognize my mother, like she could no longer recognize her son."

Emmanuel rested against the glass of the window, shoulder leaning against it. He wondered how it it would feel to open the windows and jump into the camellias below. Then he remembered. He thought of it before.

Nothing would happen. The world would stay the same; it would continue its rotten path, the happy still happy, the unhappy still unhappy; he will never get his brother back. Blair won't get his sister back.

This ugly, terrible, cruel, world, would continue to exist, and the people would live their ugly, terrible, cruel lives.

"For a few years, I tried to be on my best behavior, cause as little trouble to the duke and duchess as possible, in hopes they allow Charles to return again. The younger children had grown up and they became sadistic like their parents.

"The youngest, Cynthia, broke my things, ripped my books, and lied to her parents that I was to blame for whatever trouble. However, it was better than Jeremy and Gregory, who would put slugs in my food, force me to eat other vile things, and push me into the freezing lake. The latter gave me pneumonia and actually was one of the only times I was freed of that awful family, for I was tended to in the attic of the manor, away from everyone.

"Another time, when I saved a small kitten, the boys cut his throat. That I could not forgive. I went and hit one of them, I forgot which, either way, I was locked up in my room for a month. It made no difference for me. I only wish I had punched the other, too."

Emmanuel turned, back to the window, and thought of the glass breaking behind him. He thought of wings growing out of his back, protruding from his backbones, like a bat's wings, thinly layered with skin, and then flapping, fast, then slow, until he landed on his beloved camellias.

Only then, laid down on the flowers he grew, and loved, and knew was safe from the duke, the duchess, Cynthia, Jeremy, Gregory, the boys from the academy, and the headmaster, would he finally die.

Only in his own hands would he die. Never at another's.

He opened his eyes, and looked at Blair. Blair was writing, and Emmanuel smiled to himself. Just two more weeks on the second part, for it was longer than his childhood portion. He had to write down, vividly, the ways his brothers tormented him and later the maids of the estate, as did their father. Then he had to talk about the death of Charles.

Then, lastly, would be the truth.

He looked at Blair's back, working so hard, and wondered what he would think of him.

Would he be disgusted?

Would he hate him?

Loathe him?

Would he leave him, as did everyone?

Blair turned around, green eyes passionate, and gripping his pen tightly.

"And then?"

Emmanuel smiled. "Don't worry, there's still a long way to go."

"Just how terrible are them? Are they still there—in the house you grew up in?"

"Not there, but probably outside there somewhere, still hurting other people, people poorer, weaker, with much less status and power. People who can not fight back."

"We have to publish this book," Blair shouted, "as soon as we can! Come on, Emmanuel, keep telling the story. I'll write as much as I can and type it up tonight."

"Yes, yes." Blair was such a pure boy, Emmanuel thought to himself. For the first time, he was itching to paint—but it wasn't of a woman.

He wanted to paint that back, that hardworking, loyal, and beautiful back. He noted the way the light shone on his hair, like he was an angel, the ink spotted his hands, the dark blotches on the paper and the way he crossed his leg over the over, ankle on the knee, socks showing, and chuckled.

Yes. He would paint this before he left this world.