 Posted: Sun Jul 24, 2011 1:21 pm
 ACT 01 | DISMISSED (F.SOLO)In which Horatio H. Rington clears his mind and home of all "innocence".
LOCATION: LONDONOoSTATUS: COMPLETE
"Horatio Heracles Rington?"
"Yes."
"Father: Rupert Clairvoyance Rington; mother: Annalise Hart?"
"Yes."
"Ah. This would be yours to complete; the Queen felt it appropriate."
A pause.
"With all due respect, Mr. Lind, I decline."
"You cannot. I speak for the Queen's orders."
"The Queen would scorch the wound that bleed? Mr. Lind, the wound is fresh."
"The Queen places her faith in the young sir."
"The young sir declines; good night, Mr. Lind."
Horatio slammed the door shut (perhaps a little too hard), and silence reigned in Rington House. His lip felt numb, and the pluralization soon traveled to the rest of his small body. The remnant servants dared not to speak, their fear brewing in the taciturn air. He gazed at them, he gazed at all of them. Counted.
Lindsay, Emma called Emilia, Rosetta, Sarah, Diana, and Junipice.
Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
The Rington boy stood by the door, immobile. His mind failed to protract his meaning, and he found himself feeling rather awkward in his wordlessness. He tried not to think to much recently, but it was diffficult for a boy of twelve. He'd already avoided conveyance, his father's companions, and familiarization as a whole. Perhaps what he needed sparing from the most was simply contact--he wasn't readily sure. He acknowledged all the inconsiderateness thrust upon him--but not in his own house. He was shaken in his own house. He could not escape from where he was born, he could not escape from the overwhelming responsibility of it. Telling himself, "I am merely twelve" was not assurance enough. It couldn't be--it was stupid, imbecilic of him to try to console himself.
He never consoled himeself. So why now? When his mother passed, the Rington House's days felt no different to him, there was no void that needed to be filled--his father felt the opposite, no doubt--but for Horatio--it was just fine. Everything was at a standstill, and it wasn't until now that he was proven to be wrong. What was it about Rupert Rington that fixed the House's atmosphere? Horatio did not know.
Junipice began sobbing softly, the rippes of her hiccups like the sound of water droplets. Then, Rosetta joined her; the rest of the maids said nothing and dared not to look at them.
What could they say? There wasn't much to say. Each was afraid to join her, and speaking out of place by accident, perhaps. The young master certainly seemed mortified enough by the Queen's footman, they didn't want to add oil to the already growing fire. They were good maids, good maids that were the closest to the young Rington, feeding him, reading to him--they were almost a counterpart of him though all knew the boy too well to think he'd admit so. The change was just too radical, perhaps. Too startling? No. Not too startling--that wasn't it at all.
The Encyclopedia in the young Rington's hand trembled, and he felt his face grow hot. How un-filial of him. His father's death was mourned only by the servants. The late Rington's son could not cry. Yet, he was cursed with life and the living of it. Mark Mark Twain once announced that the greatest boon was Death, but Rupert Rington already stole it away; only four were left. Twain's fairy stated that the other four were poor choices. Of course, Horatio was never interested in any of the boons, for life itself was strange to him. Once a person was born, they were tabula rasa; once a person died, they were once more, tabula rasa. It was the middle that confounded him, the many middles of the middles.
It was now that Horatio realized the significance of his father. There were things only his father could do; if that weren't true, the servants would be at ease. His father triumphed in Death, and this struck a dark chord in the boy's heart. Something that he'd never felt before.
He wondered if it was regret, or was it loneliness? He'd always felt loneliness, though he assumed that with age it became similar to a kind of friendship in itself, ironically.
He could not become his father no matter how many books he read. It wasn't a matter of becoming "the better man"; it was a matter of becoming the "right man".
Slowly, he made unsteady steps towards Junipice before hugging the woman's waist. Surprised by the gesture, her sobbing softened, though her tears stained his vest. He wanted to smile, but his lips could not quite perfect the expression.
"You will all retire tomorrow," he said softly, brushing Junipice's bangs aside before tip-toeing to kiss her cheek. She was a good maid and comrade to him. She would be missed.
"Young master, all my heart belongs to you," Rosetta started, though he interjected. He didn't like to interject Rosetta, he'd never before. She was always the most steadfast one, speaking up for him when he was blamed for his own mishaps.
"I am glad, Rosetta, my skylark and eternal friend. However, I do not believe the boy I am to become is a Horatio H. Rington my family would take pride in--nor all of you." He chose his words carefully, wiping Rosetta's cheek with a handkerchief. A considerable amount of time passed before he continued to speak, he struggled to be precise: "There are some memories that should be kept sweet, and it would be unbecoming of me to steal them from you."
Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
The following week occurred exactly how Horatio predicted: empty.
The week that succeeded that one was not foreseen by the detective, however.
Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
Dead to the last femme.
Again, Horatio declined his investigating services. He would not fulfill their autopsies--they wouldn't want that. They'd want him to sign with "Viva la Vida". The Queen's demands were emphasized with each body that she uncovered to him, and each time, he disregarded them. He would not investigate--the Queen took him for a fool. Each time, he stressed his youth and inexperience. Each time, she corrected him.
She could not kill him if he did not investigate.
"I am twelve and premature."
"I am not my father. I will not die."
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knife effect Vice Captain
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