Samuel sat at his desk in the shuttered laboratory. Every time Don Juan completed another pace behind his back, the coil of annoyance and disdain in his chest twisted around itself. Before him stood three vials he had just diluted. In his hand he held a letter, and sorted on his desk lay more. It was the infuriating paper trail of his father's failures. All his debts, his secretive letters to mistresses he gave money to, the nonsensical investments he made upon promises of so-called businessmen he met in his gentleman's club. Samuel just finished reading a letter to a woman, to find out how much of the missing funds had gone that way. The lecture turned his blood acidic. The fingertips of his left hand tapped in a very slow and tense rhythm on the tabletop.
He found the letters earlier today, when he was visiting his father on his supposed sickbed. Edmund Griffith kept them shamelessly in the nightstand of the bed he shared with his wife. Had shared, until Samuel secretly placed his father under the imperio curse and told his mother to take any other room in the house and make it her own, since her husband was apparently in rapid mental decay. That had been in August.
Samuel had sat at the side of his willless progenitor's bed today and looked upon his once handsome face, bloated and congealed by the excesses of his life. With his decision to exert total control over his father, spurred by Edmund Griffith's betrayal to change his will in Gilbert's favor, Samuel had trapped himself in chains to him. He felt him always in his mind. Edmund needed to cease — he needed to stop. It was enough. Nonetheless, the prospect of shouldering this last responsibility made Sam want to die.
Today he had sat in his father's room and his gaze drifted to the bookshelf, to see a copy of Byron's 'Don Juan' perched on the very front. Of course. Edmund loved Byron's writing, as did his beloved eldest Gilbert. Gilbert had been friends with Don Juan, of the Dempseys. Samuel turned his head to watch the younger man with the dark curls pace another round across the room, completely oblivious to anything besides his own repetitive dilemma. Suffice to say, Samuel's mood on arrival to the laboratory had been terrible. It was made more terrifying by residing sealed away under Samuel's smooth and hard surface, with no way to dissipate or be expressed.
With cruel feeling in his heart, he gave Don Juan even less of the substance than usual. Now he was unwilling to leave, restless, fiending. He made another round and stopped in front of Samuel's desk. He had expressive eyes. Today they were pleading with fervent desperation. "Give me more." "Fine," Samuel answered. His voice sounded empty. "Tonight you get as much as you can stomach. Don't get used to it. Come here."
He did not so much as move an inch from his seat at the desk. Samuel simply waited until Don Juan kneeled and then he measured double the sensible amount. Don Juan's entire body had a light tremor, because he had not gotten enough to shake off withdrawals. Sam gently steadied his face with his left hand and dropped the substance on his tongue. "There you go, Don Juan," he said. That would send him spinning towards an ascent and fall he was hardly prepared for. "The great object of life is sensation.", he told him. It was the only Byron quote he liked, and only half of it.
He found the letters earlier today, when he was visiting his father on his supposed sickbed. Edmund Griffith kept them shamelessly in the nightstand of the bed he shared with his wife. Had shared, until Samuel secretly placed his father under the imperio curse and told his mother to take any other room in the house and make it her own, since her husband was apparently in rapid mental decay. That had been in August.
Samuel had sat at the side of his willless progenitor's bed today and looked upon his once handsome face, bloated and congealed by the excesses of his life. With his decision to exert total control over his father, spurred by Edmund Griffith's betrayal to change his will in Gilbert's favor, Samuel had trapped himself in chains to him. He felt him always in his mind. Edmund needed to cease — he needed to stop. It was enough. Nonetheless, the prospect of shouldering this last responsibility made Sam want to die.
Today he had sat in his father's room and his gaze drifted to the bookshelf, to see a copy of Byron's 'Don Juan' perched on the very front. Of course. Edmund loved Byron's writing, as did his beloved eldest Gilbert. Gilbert had been friends with Don Juan, of the Dempseys. Samuel turned his head to watch the younger man with the dark curls pace another round across the room, completely oblivious to anything besides his own repetitive dilemma. Suffice to say, Samuel's mood on arrival to the laboratory had been terrible. It was made more terrifying by residing sealed away under Samuel's smooth and hard surface, with no way to dissipate or be expressed.
With cruel feeling in his heart, he gave Don Juan even less of the substance than usual. Now he was unwilling to leave, restless, fiending. He made another round and stopped in front of Samuel's desk. He had expressive eyes. Today they were pleading with fervent desperation. "Give me more." "Fine," Samuel answered. His voice sounded empty. "Tonight you get as much as you can stomach. Don't get used to it. Come here."
He did not so much as move an inch from his seat at the desk. Samuel simply waited until Don Juan kneeled and then he measured double the sensible amount. Don Juan's entire body had a light tremor, because he had not gotten enough to shake off withdrawals. Sam gently steadied his face with his left hand and dropped the substance on his tongue. "There you go, Don Juan," he said. That would send him spinning towards an ascent and fall he was hardly prepared for. "The great object of life is sensation.", he told him. It was the only Byron quote he liked, and only half of it.
