As far as I know my mother was only brought here that one time. But maybe I’m wrong. I know he taunted my father about his inability to control his wife. I think my grandfather hated her. Once she served her purpose, bearing his grandsons, he didn’t bother with her. Until he learned the truth about Theron. Then she had his full, undivided attention. And I was made to witness.

Jesus.

Can I blame her for hating me?

I push my hand through my hair roughly, drink three long swallows of scotch, then three more until I start to feel it. The heat. The numbing will come. But not fast enough so I drink more.

My mother is right. I will hurt Mercedes.

Because my grandfather favored me for a reason. He chose me over my father, over Theron even before he knew Theron wasn’t blood. It wasn’t because I was the firstborn. It was because he saw something in me he liked. He saw himself. His sharpness of mind. His disciplined nature. His need for balance between right and wrong, justice and consequence.

And he saw his own rage.

I would carry the family after his death. It had been decreed from when I was only sixteen. My father had accepted it. He’d had no choice once my grandfather learned the truth about Theron’s true paternity. Ironically, it was my father who had given him that piece of information. I still don’t understand why he did that. Was he so afraid of my grandfather? Was he so controlled by him that he would deliver his wife to the old man? That he would ensure the destruction of Theron’s future? Or did he do it to punish my mother for humiliating him with her affair?

The music reaches its crescendo as I finish the bottle. I get to my feet and I hurl the decanter against the far wall. The sound of expensive crystal smashing is momentarily satisfying. It feels good. Violence feels good. It always has if I’m honest with myself.

I stalk toward that wall, glass crunching under my shoes as I tear the racks that hang there down. The music drowns out my thoughts while I rip the room apart, instruments of torture, some for show, some for use. I don’t discriminate. I destroy them all, tearing down shelves, turning over benches, ripping leather from wood.

His books I tear in two before feeding them to the fire. I open the cigar box. Still half a dozen in here. I pick one up, smell it. Nothing quite takes me to that dark time as this smell. It still lingers in my study too. I should tear the walls down. Throw away anything the stench clings to no matter its value. I should bury any memory of him, including his portrait, and maybe with it I can bury this side of myself.