This is just something I wrote for no apparent reason besides boredom and too much TVTropes. It's essentially just a very short story featuring my archvillain character, Lord Blackmore, or how he would appear in a "darker" setting. The aim here is to give a feel for the character, without cramming anything down your throat. Is he a heartless monster? A well-intentioned extremist? A psychopathic sadist? A tragic player forced onto an uncaring stage? Or something else entirely? I'll let you decide for yourselves.
Enjoy.
I remember it clearly, all so very clearly. There he was, sitting in front of me; or more aptly, kneeling in front of me. Kneeling, yessir. On his hands and knees, staring up at me with those big, pitable eyes humans think are so endearing. I have grown to despise them. To me, they are a sign of weakness. Weakness, yessir. He was shaking. Shaking, would you believe? He could hardly control himself. He wanted to go. He wanted to leave and never come back. Never, yessir.
But that wasn't what I wanted, oh no. I swished my cape a little to the side, as I often do, then I took a step or two forward until I was standing right before him. I was very close to his face, yessir. I could smell the fear, smell it, I could. So very delicious, it was. That delightfully fragrant scent, with just a hint of spice. If I could bottle that scent, that primordial essence of sheer horror, I would wear it every day as a cologne. But I digress. He was looking up at me, yessir, and I could see tears welling up in his eyes. Disgusting things, emotions are.
"Do you want to go?" I asked, feigning charity. He paused, carefully analysing the question for hidden meanings, and then nodded. Nodded, yessir. I just smiled. "You have nowhere to go," I told him, "Nowhere at all, not anymore. Look around you. You see all this? Tell me what you see."
He tried to answer, but nothing came. Just a sickly, guttural gulp escaped his trembling, pale lips. I smiled even more. "That's right, nothing. Nothing, yessir." I crouched down slightly, so I could see into his eyes. I looked at him, yessir, and he looked back at me. And I knew what he was seeing. I would tell him what he was seeing, yessir. "This is fear, my boy. True fear. That hideous tingling sensation, the kind that makes your hairs stand on end. You hear a noise in the corner, but when you look, there's nothing there. There never was anything there to start with, of course, but your mind won't accept that. This is what you're seeing, yessir. Fear. Raw, uninhibited fear. I am fear. Remember, as a child, when your father would tell you stories about the boogeyman? Go to bed, he would say; or, eat your greens, he would say. Or the boogeyman will come and eat you up, he would say. Remember that, my boy?"
He choked, and I could tell he remembered all too well. "I am that boogeyman. You were always a good boy, I'm sure. You more than likely went to bed, yessir, and ate your greens, and did as Daddy told you to. But Daddy isn't here now. Daddy tried to lock up the boogeyman; make it go away, yessir, like he would do for you as a child. But this time, the boogeyman didn't want to be locked up. No, not this time. This time, there is no closet to hide the boogeyman in, no empty corner of your mind where you can send the boogeyman so he wouldn't haunt you any longer. Why, though? Why can't you lock him up in the closet and throw away the key?"
He shook his head. "Because nothing is fair. Because the truth is, everything...everything is just a joke. Just a sick, brutal, miserable joke. And guess what? We're all the players, yessir; just actors, cast in a role we never knew of nor wanted, just characters in this monstrous farce. Oh, it may seem tragic, but you can be certain that some vile higher power is watching this joke unfold before him, laughing like the sick madman he is. I am all too aware of this, yessir, and I aim to destroy this cruel jest once and for all. A better world, a world where there is no sick joke, a world where people can appreciate who they really are. A world of fear, chaos, madness. You can only appreciate who you are, yessir, when you truly remove the shackles of order, the chains that tether you to some false ideal. Sickening. Utterly so, yessir."
He could take no more. Grinning gleefully, I placed my hand against his forehead. "Your misery ends here, my boy, yessir. Consider this a mercy killing." And with that line uttered, I blew the poor fellow's mind to pieces. There was no blood or gore; but his mind was shattered now, and without that, his body could no longer function. He collapsed to the floor in a crumpled heap, surrounded by the stained remains of his revolting relatives. There was simply no place for them in this cruel world.
Never let it be said I am inconsiderate of others, yessir. Hyeheheheheheh...
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