• Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
    --William Shakespeare



    -Bells-
    {Aminri}
    A bell rang. It was a sweet, foreboding bell that spelled the end of all things for me. Life is such a fragile, easily wastable thing. It’s almost pitiful. And yet…somehow it retains its beauty and grace, for it is the holder of all things and is the mother of all existence. Never, though, has this gift of nature shed its sparkling light on me, for today, the bell rings.

    The manor was in hysterics; servants were running about and mumbling things such as, “he’s coming,” or “can’t mess up.” These words they repeated over and over as if that’s all they were taught to speak.

    According to the daily status quo as of that moment supper was to be served, although dinner was being prepared. We were supposed to have my usual tutoring in the afternoon but instead it was I who taught the chefs a few things. Someone was supposed to feed Bonnie, the dog, but even she was being groomed and prepared like a princess at a ball. This, though, was an event larger and much more moving than any ball. The Benningtons were coming and wherever the Benningtons went they were praised and beheld like gods and goddesses. Each step they took were traced and preserved, each word recorded and repeated as a story, each thing they touched were never cleansed again, and yet these words cannot describe their profound existence.

    It was extremely irritating. My mind had wondered long and hard time and time again, yet nothing comes to mind as to why these rich, tense, cold people, I dare say, came to own such fame and honor. Power might be why, and money, perhaps utter foolishness but no. These crowds of people, paparazzi, reporters, regular civilians, who surround my house as a raging army would are too much! These Benningtons scare me and they are coming straight at me. What family is mine to trade away their youngest son to such stiff and conservative people? None, I’d say. None.

    Father was pacing back in forth, a twisted expression of agony from the tension strapped upon his face. Plastered on mother’s was a straight expression, yet the aura about her told a story the same as father’s. My siblings, on the other hand, (all ten of them) are prancing around like hyperactive children at the news of the Bennington’s trip here. How horrible. A small voice at the back of my mind was telling me they were really happy about my departure. No matter, though, for I would’t be missing them. Or mother. Or father. Perhaps Bonnie but she was merely a pet greyhound. “Ari!” I heard my familiar nickname being called.

    I turned and met grinning face of Brahm, my older brother of 17 years. I soon realized what exactly was on his mind and sighed. “Abraham, what could you want from me this time?”

    His face twisted into an angry scowl. He grabbed my collar. “Don’t call me that!” he snapped through a line of yellow teeth, “You are not my superior, so don’t you dare call me that ever again!”

    I whimpered in fear and heard my other brother, Harold, scoff, “What a pitiful little squirrel!”

    Brahm grabbed my hand and held it up next to his head. “What fragile, pretty hands these are! Just like our sister’s!”

    They laughed in unison. “Hey, brother! How about we make them a bit manlier?”

    “And how do we do that?”

    “I know! We should hurt it a bit! Make’ it look like a working man’s hand.”

    Brahm grinned and turned back to me. Already tears were welling up in my eyes as fear danced around in my stomach. “Hah!” Harold teased, “See? He’s gonna cry now!”

    I tried desperately to escape but his grip was iron. “Don’t worry, though, we’ll soon turn you into a man…”

    His grip tightened more and more until Harold grabbed on as well and soon crack! It broke. I screamed in agony as tears fell like salt rain down my face. Another crack was heard and in fear I looked down at my hand, thinking it was that. I only found Harold lying on the ground, a sliver of crimson painted along the contours of his face. Soon after a dark haired man twice as large as I stepped into view, a long, thick wooden cane in his hand. His left eye was covered by a black eye patch. His free, bright blue eye switched over to me and stayed glued there as if in fascination. That eye was cold and yet was unrealistically taunting.

    An awkward silence loomed over the room. The man, who was clad in black, bore a strangely familiars symbol upon the top right corner of his forehead. It was then realization struck me hard, a spiteful, stupid feeling trailing behind it. This was the Bennington I has been so shaken about all this time.