The deliberate death.

Polliack By Polliack, 29th Dec 2015 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Narrative

The Introduction and the first two chapters to an old novella I hope to now finish.



I sometimes think that this tale may be the subject of nothing more than a simple observer, both present and absent, surrounded by lines not yet written and vacant pages still to be inked.
By my understanding such a perception could only have come about by external factors for which I refuse to find personal fault. Neither can mankind’s flawed interpretation nor their unwelcomed reaction insist upon me bidding otherwise. Unfortunately in the world today responsibility is no longer the product of acceptance but rather; a clever and very sensible assault one imposes upon those who do not suit their standards, in which he neither accepts nor acknowledges the fact that either his actions or lack thereof, have led to a sudden decline in both his peers regarded opinion and his own projected esteem.
I blame myself for that- well more accurately I blame us for that, considering the fact that we are, if nothing more: Simply simulating ignorance towards the disappointing scale within which our own inadequacies so often reach and more so surpass.
I am a simple man, I do not pretend to possess superiority over any person, within my range or extending further, I do however, much to my own detriment, lend a certain pride to my understandings that does not sit well with those of a more simple nature. I apologize for the ponderousness of my introduction but I view most of my own personal qualities much like a surging mirage of colourful deviations and imperfections, accompanied by a rather feeble conscience whose base functionality is simply to attempt control without any expectation of accomplishment.

I believe I would like to resolve my introduction by promoting the following notion; the expression that any man who reads this and assumes some kind of comprehension is most likely a fool.
For the man I knew was an exceptional individual, who somehow achieved for himself all he had desired by the unusually devious, yet blind cunning often lent to those whose minds are so fiercely dominated by the seemingly imaginary ignorance so often acquired by those who practice the art of life with a discerning eye. Many would regard it as a most ingenious device of deception, projected by one so shrewd even his own conscience would often fall prey to its trickeries.
Instinctual deviance is quite a controversial and morbidly self-destructive quality, had I not seen much as a young man, I would have believed it nothing more than a myth conceived by the all-consuming, self-sustaining greed afflicting most doctors whose practices may benefit from the existence of such a condition.
A wandering smile, below the surface, a hollow being, whose emptiness was protected far beneath a living shield, constructed of twisted souls and unusual specimens stemming from a culture whose minds are nothing more than a distortion of what would be called good, had there been any chance of positivity surviving its proximity, and it is at this point that I must concede this introduction and follow on toward philosophy, for society so frequently falls prey to the murmurings of broadly famed monsters feigning sobriety that we do not pay any attention the modes we follow, whatsoever...



I suppose at some point in the story i should state the manner in which I made the acquaintance of Mr. Hartwell.

Before I do so I think it would be best to tell you about myself:
My name is Simon Grey, I was born in a place not unlike the south, where ridiculous and disturbingly over religious imbeciles preached fools philosophies and practiced them to the best of their abilities, portraying something of a spiritual witlessness, originated by those so self-indulged that the saddening truth of their own inadequacy and meaninglessness in such a vibrant and expansive world were simply too complex for their infertile minds to grasp.

Not long after I reached the age of seven my family suffered a great hardship, one which causes me much pain at its mention: the loss of my father. After what my mother deemed a patient grieving period, we decided to move to the city, and it was there that I managed to fill the waterless grey outline given by my birthplace with all the colours projected by the jewels so continuously exhibited within the city and its incredibly energetic inhabitancy, I was astounded at the thought of a world so full of such amusing people, all content in their diversity and unusual understanding of how the pieces of the world so intricately placed, lay stationary in simple hesitation, as if almost sure of the impending manipulations to be made by those who understood them.

It was in the city that I learned how to be a man, not a brute, prone to violence and unintelligible measures of masculinity. I learned to be a man of culture, a man of the mind; skilled in nothing more than a simple understanding of composure and adaptation, equipped with an intellect and a rare ability for discernment; towards the understandings of both fools and men alike, regardless of residence. I was a “clever” man, and I would often fall victim to the very fiend towards which most clever men develop such fatal blindness, my own mind, and the source of my painfully eternal need to know things about the world, which most men should not.

After some time in the city, I became tired of its people and their dull ways, I had developed a certain distaste towards the expressions of people, and the generic individuality so often projected by those who refused to conform only in the hopes of achieving conformation within a minority that as fashion developed further would become a major social cliché.

Time passed and my boredom transformed itself into a hatred for those residing within a world defined so strongly by the insensitivities of modern aristocracy, that class no longer held value. Pride was no longer an attribute worthy of my appraisal, and I had soon developed the opinion that only those who lived in complete obliviousness towards its poison would preserve any hopes of surviving its infinitely powerful seductions.
After my fifteenth birthday, my mother introduced me to a frighteningly pale skinned, middle-aged gentleman by the name of Gregory Zurvic, a wealthy foreigner from somewhere across the sea in a country without a name. My mother had met Mr. Zurvic at an art exhibition she was holding in an upmarket city gallery. The impression was given that they had been intimate for some time, and had obviously come to the agreement that any further secrecy would be far too much a risk towards both parties reputation and as such it would be polite to disclose the nature of their relationship, although the description given left far too much room for speculation. After being informed of their relationship I remained quite sceptical, Gregory did not seem particularly threatening, he did however carry a solemn air about him, as if life were simply a flickering candle in a wild blizzard, and there was something else too, below the surface, a distant creature masked beneath a strong illusion, well aided by false courtesy and excessively compensating flattery.

My mother married Mr. Zurvic several months later without any period of engagement and we moved to a part of the city that I had only glimpsed from the top most views empty urban ruins and whilst doing humble work in the homes of long dead money born monarchs and their living relatives, during my younger days, when the city had still held the kind of magic most children give much of their imagination towards both the conception and maintenance of. What was then a mysterious world filled with colourful cars carrying dark and faded people had now become a horrifying spectacle of greed fuelled capitalism, within which resided an undeniably false sense of elegance, projected by men who’s hastily increasing wealth could now, far out buy their remarkably low priced self-worth and trifling personalities.

Over time I became familiar with my step-father and he was, to me, a conceited and wicked man, whose brutalities were imposed on all he believed below him, leaving few beyond his reach. A man ruled by deviant and perverse urges, of which there were many and all were willingly nurtured. My mother was no exception to those who suffered the twisted compulsions of Gregory Zurvic, a king amongst cowards.
I had attempted to rescue her from the diamond encrusted prison within which she so willingly remained (immobilized by her own insecurities), though after accepting the obvious futility, I gave in, surrendering to the agonizing truth of my circumstance. I began to participate in many of the distractions that most young men in such uncomfortable and halting situations eventually turn to, and those were; all the frivolities and foolish joys that were so infinitely abundant in the city within which circumstance kept me so well caged, my true prison though, was a place in my mind, which even after my escape remains very much alive, one I avoid at the cost of many comforts. My understanding is as much the consequence of my own past mistakes as it is a measure of preserving character, and actions never taken until the realization of my own gullibility decided to make its long awaited arrival in the form a man, one of unique qualities and most peculiar understandings.

After a somewhat trivial and very raucous romantic involvement, concerning the daughter of one of Zurvic’s business partners–or perhaps several, my step father thought it would be best to send me across country, somewhere undesirable as much of a cruelty as an attempt to silence my wild lifestyle and end the string of bad publicity that so keenly followed. I was sent off to a town by the name of Grenville to live with an old acquaintance of Gregory’s, although I had a feeling that my residence was more of a repaid debt than it was a friendly favour, my step father had far more debtors than friends.

In the beginning I would have described the town as empty, almost as if the most exciting thing to do would be to fill the seemingly hopeless space that presented itself to those who observed from the external, though my opinion would soon change.
I promptly left home on the morning train to Grenville, it was my belief that my step father had finally realized the futility in keeping me caged within the city, and had decided to free me from his presence, an action towards which I felt nothing but relief, although I maintained the illusion of repulsion, in the fear that any expressed joy may have led his insatiable desire to inflict pain into overriding his concern for a healthier social standing, thus cancelling my already minute chance at fractional freedom.

Chapter One: Arrival

Chapter 2: Arrival
The world into which I was born was-and still is- Horribly cold, both in regards to the General social intelligence and temperature, only one of which would rectified by my relocation.
Grenville was a warm place, I had learned so upon my arrival. On this particular day the sun was hot, and more than capable of draining any moisture the body may hold within a few short days. It was as if the place I had come to have no interest in being occupied by a man of my sort and was making its best efforts to remove me. Had I any choice in the matter, the necessity of persuasion would have dissipated, however it seemed fate – in her mad wisdom – had deemed this an appropriate sentence for my indiscretions. We arrived in the late evening, I was astonished! It was a grand image, and I had yet to see past its gates. The entrance to the estate itself was spectacle enough: Two enormous, green painted, grimly patterned, solid iron gates. They must have stood nearly 20 feet with a similarly painted eagle at the centre of each halve of the gate and a bell button towards the left wall.
We rang the bell and a few moments later a man appeared along the driveway, carrying a set of keys and a large old fashioned lantern. He was an elderly fellow with grey hair, he wore crooked, sully expression and was dressed in entirely in black, the exception being his shoes which were black. The man unlocked the clasp on the gate and preceded to open it.
The grounds were not nearly as well kept as the entrance, the driveway was a sea of weeds, and on each side a forest of overgrown white and red roses that had been all too happy to take up most of the area, in the absence of their oppressor.

I exited cab and the man in brown shoes introduced himself to me as Thomas, the groundskeeper, noticing my gaze drift to the thorny mess on outskirts of the green sunken driveway he quickly added, “The front belongs to Mrs Collins, she isn’t home until the summer, it’s never much till then.’’. After helping offload the bags, the cab drove off, and I was left only my thoughts. “The house is this way.’’ He began to walk as I picked up my bags and I hurried to catch up.
We must have walked the path for at least another five minutes before reaching a large thatch mansion, with a purposely aged statue of Apollo holding a lamb, it was a grotesque abomination, whose context seemed indecipherable. Leading me to the door and away from the disturbed courtyard, we rang the doorbell and a large, black haired gentleman in his late fifties opened the door. He had a rather joyful glint in his eyes, one that hinted at interesting conversation, and dance, however the rest of his face was sad, sad and drunk. ‘’Simon right? Well come in boy, you must be raw by now.’’ He was not wrong. Mr Collins offered me a drink as I entered and offered to show me my room.
I had arrived.


Coming Of Age, Dramatic Romance, Novella

Meet the author

author avatar Polliack
Poetry, Non-fiction/fiction, Romance, Drama, Religion, Drugs, Philosophy.

Share this page

moderator johnnydod moderated this page.
If you have any complaints about this content, please let us know


Add a comment
Can't login?