Henriad (History Plays, Book 5)

10: I'll so offend to make offense a skill

Henry

I do not note the time so I'm surprised when Joan and the other children return. The children sneak off to their rooms quietly, not even coming by my office. I found fucking rule charts and schedules and age-appropriate advice for dealing with a dying parent printed out and in all of their rooms because my sociopath eldest child can't wait for me to be dead.
Joan has not been brainwashed for weeks, so she comes and finds me. By the clock it's been hours, but Harry still has me shaking.
"How did it go with Harry?" she asks, clearly suspicious she hasn't seen him yet.
"Okay—so---I tried, for ten minutes, to be calm and rational about him," I say, holding up my hands.
"That's good, okay, and how did he react?"
"Oh. The ten minutes were not when he was present, no, I'm not fucking doing that---look at this shit," I throw one of Harry's notebooks at her.
"It's---oh god," she looks at it, "Why---why does he write right side up and upside down on every line?"
"Long answer because he runs out of room on the page too quickly and keeps thinking, short answer he's psychotic," I say, flatly.
"Oh god—is this about me?"
"Uhuh, there are three like that, contingency plans for after my death which he is fucking fixated with by the way," I say, throwing two more notebooks to her, "This is just what I've found so far. I don't have the strength to look in the attic yet."
"Oh Harry," she says, tiredly, looking at the notebooks, "I mean, this one is about his death so you know—"
"He's insane. More than that he's driving me insane," I say.
She sighs, flipping through one of the notebooks, "Where is he now?"
"I'm going to assume in his room or the stables, crying like a fucking seven year old girl like he fucking does every time he gets in trouble----oh before you feel all sorry for him and shit this entire situation is completely in character," I say, gesturing around to the mess of an office that I've been tearing apart trying undo what he's done. I'm in his office now, by the way, trying to go through all of his shit. Half of it is in other languages so that's not going great.
"Henry—"
"I've let him do small errands and shit because he likes numbers and lying to people but he's been undermining me for years. It's over, he will not have my empire— if he's as smart as he thinks he is, he can build his own," I say.  "This is very close to a new level."
"Really?" she asks, looking up.
"Yeah it's pretty fucking close to a new level anyway---why?"
"So he's previously made twenty year plans to buy off half of the government?"
"I'd assume so; that's a very specific thing though why would---Jesus Christ," I follow her gaze to the ceiling, where he has paper upon paper tapped up with his writing scribbled all over it.
"You have to be shitting me---is he in his room? Can you find out? I really can't talk to him for maybe a week, but I need to know if he's got plans to kill me taped to his ceiling—"
"He's not there. He wouldn't do that—"
"Do you know that?"
We're both staring at the ceiling.
"Look, there, in the corner he has 'discuss with dad'," she says.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice the 'No, never' written under it?" I ask.
"Well, he thought about talking to you."
"He clearly thinks about everything!"
"I'm going to lose my mind. Can you put sixteen year olds up for adoption if you offer to take another one that isn't a psychopath?" I ask.
"You don't mean that," she says, handing me back the notebooks.
"I'm very close to meaning it," I growl.
"I'm sure he was very sad when you were angry with him."
"Yes, he can replicate human emotion very well," I say, "I'm sure he's hiding someplace sulking. He does this; he will sulk for a few days then he'll show back up groveling begging to help and usually I give in but not this time. no. He's gone too far."
"Okay, then, can we have a good dinner without arguing with him at least for the sake of the others?" she asks, rubbing my arms.
"I'm sure based off of his previous behavior he's not going to show up until breakfast when he'll think I've forgotten," I say, "He'll spend the night hiding someplace dreaming of being awful and then he'll show back up."
"He's not seven anymore," she says.
"Well he acts it when pouts. He's too stubborn to actually do as I say," I say.