Chapter 81 THE MONSTER
THEO'S POINT OF VIEW.
Author’s note: The following chapter deals with domestic violence and predatory behavior. I write this to show the impact of abuse on survivors and the reasons behind Theo’s scars. If this content is difficult for you, please skip this chapter. — Aurelia.
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The text came at midnight. I’d parted ways with Seraphina, and had been staring at the ceiling, the image of her face on my mind, when my phone dinged, brightening the screen with the notification of a message from my trusted butler, and spy at home.
‘He’s at it again. Hurry!’
I didn’t bother thinking about anything else, as I bolted out of the door in a quick step, the image of my mother and sister huddled in a corner on my mind. The drive to the Kingswell estate felt like it had stretched for far too long, even though my Ferrari was at top speed as I dashed off the road. My pulse thrummed in my ears, and I could practically taste my heart in my mouth.
My spy, Richard, never wasted words, not when it came to this matter. He hadn’t texted since last week, so I thought my father had had his fill of violence for the week, but I should have known.
Nothing was ever too much for Phillip Kingswell.
I swallowed, my throat feeling like sandpaper, as my grip on the steering wheel tightened. It felt like someone had a knife to my chest, and they were twisting it so much that it hurt.
The image of my mother’s bloody lips as she trembled in a bloody mess on the floor after he’d hit her too hard, her hands littered with bruises, and her pearl beads littered the floor with blood stains.
My father has a sick fantasy, and it involves us…well, at least behind closed doors. To the public eye, Phillip Kingswell, duke of Summerset, was the epitome of perfection, charity, and excellence.
When the cameras were off, he was a fucking monster.
My childhood was littered with pain, the pain of seeing my mother tense at his arrival, and heave a sigh of relief whenever he would be gone for weeks on some business trip. But that peace was a hefty price to pay, because he would return with twice the blood thirst, and my mother, my sister, and I would be the ones easy and quick to satisfy his sick fetish.
My sister was still eleven, she couldn’t leave….not yet. Even I hadn’t left, and I’m fucking eighteen.
The mansion loomed in the distance. It’s dark, high walls shining in the night sky, littered with expensive lights my father had installed himself. The closer I got, the more suffocated I felt, but I couldn’t turn back, I couldn’t run, or hide.
Because they needed me.
Every single time, I’d swear to myself that it would be the last time I’d come to this fucking house, and every time it turned out to be a lie.
I couldn’t leave….not when my mother and sister were still inside.
My father’s sick, twisted words echoed in my ears like a broken alarm clock, haunting with its vibrations, almost rendering me dizzy.
‘Very soon, you’ll see how much fun this is. And you’ll get to like it too.
The city was riddled with fear of the infamous Bunny Murderer, as the police had been combing the streets and the fucking country for over two decades in search of the monster, but they had no idea, the evil doer was the one man they welcomed into the States with the thought that it would be a good way for the U.K and America to further relations.
My father, Phillip Kingswell.
He would target homeless girls, brutally assault them, and kill them.
And I couldn’t do anything about it.
Not until I was sure my loved ones were safe.
Speeding through the gates which parted of their own accord for me, I drove into the large estate, stopping before the front door. The sky poured heavy rain on me as I ran inside.
The smell of wine and Roast Beef hit me in the nose as soon as I walked into the dining room. I hated this place and the memories it evoked in me. The paintings of my ancestors lined the walls, as they all stared down at us, like they approved of the madness that was my sperm donor.
My brother sat with her back stiff at the table, my sister beside her with her head downcast as she chewed slowly on her steak. My father had another weird fetish. We all had to be dressed in white at the table, and not one stain was to be on it while eating.
The one time my sister, Anastasia, had accidentally gotten a dot of barbecue sauce on her dress, he’d gone ballistic. He’d forced her to stand against the wall while he threw shark knives at her. If she moved, he would slice her skin open.
She had been seven.
I remember the way she trembled and cried silently, the way my mother stared blankly at the floor, fighting tears, and the urge to plead with my mad man of a father. If she had spoken, he’d rape her again and again, in front of his friends.
At that age, I stepped forward, volunteering to take my sister’s place, and he’d beaten me to an inch of my life, making sure to break my legs.
Luckily, he hadn’t done something that would have rendered me a cripple.
“Oh, look, it’s my son and heir.” My father exclaimed at the sight of me, breaking the silence in the dining hall.
I stared into his eyes, the ones that mirrored my very own; something I hated. I wish I’d gotten my mother’s eyes like my sister had, and not his sick resemblance, which made me want to scream every time I looked into a mirror.
I bit my tongue from a retort, and walked towards the table, stopping just a few meters from it.
His hand slammed the table so hard the crystal rattled. My sister flinched slightly, but my mother didn’t move--she hadn’t moved in years.
“Did I not say dinner begins at eight sharp?” He said with rage lining his voice, before turning to my sister. “Did I not say posture must be perfect? “ She didn’t say anything, she just continued eating.
I understood. He had starved them again.
“You’re a sick bastard,” I whispered, but loud enough to hear it. At that, I could see my mother twitch slightly. I knew she was afraid, but before I could say anything else, the backhand came.
I swung my face to the side, hissing internally at the pain. I’d learned not to ever show pain in front of him at an early age. It always excites him when his victim pleads, scrape, and scratch at his feet for mercy.
I’d silenced that when I was ten….he would never see that side of me again.
“You think you can tell me how to run my family?” He said, the sound of his chair scraping the floor as he stood abruptly. “I can do as I fucking want! You might think you’re protecting them, that you’re their fucking savior, but I see it in those eyes. You’ll one day become like me, you’ll carry the legacy on.”
He knew my fears, and he voiced them every time.
My mother’s lips trembled as she cried silently.
But before she could start begging, I flashed her a look not to. She was Arabella Kingswell. She should never beg a man as sick as Phillip.
I took his beatings, the thought of my mother and sister safer warming me, as my mind took me to a happy place.
To dark eyes that always seemed to hold secrets, as her dark hair bounced with each move.
To Seraphina.