R3 (History Plays, Book 7)

1: now is the winter of our discontent

Richard

How nice of you to join us here on this fated day.
If we haven't met before, my name is Richard York. I've been in other tales, you may have heard of me. I am quite happy to tell you my story, just mine, now. I shall soon prove to be the most interesting person in this sorry tale. The Yorks are neither a lucky, nor a blessed lot. So I have laid schemes and traps, to improve my own standing in the world for however long I shall get to haunt it. I was born a cursed dog, disfigured, bent and twisted, unable to walk properly, cursed by own family as a traitor my body apparently betraying the poison within. So I am set to embrace it.

Anyway, everything is complicated, and we've not much time. I'm on my way to a funeral, of my own making. No not mine. I'm responsible for the death. You see, I learned long ago I was not set to be the hero of this story. So I am more than content to prove a villain. I'm not made, it would seem, for anything else.  In that vein, I have laid plans, devious, and vile, and if my brother Edward is stupid and trusting as I am evil and clever, then our brother George (we also call him Clarence, don't ask why it doesn't matter) shall shortly be imprisoned.

I finish pulling on my jacket, and straightening my tie. But hush, softly now, I hear something.
"Richard!" a banging on my door.

"I could hear both my name and your fist, brother," I say, wheeling my chair to the door only for him to slam it open and mostly into the wheel of my chair. I sigh. I knew I should have used crutches today. No, if I had he'd have knocked me clean over.

"The police are here for me, do you know anything about this---? Did Edward say anything----?" he asks, leaning in the doorway. He's half dressed by which I mean wearing a sweaty wife beater and boxers. A cigarette is unlit and in one hand. Our mother hates us smoking. Our mother also hates us, so there's that.

"No, oh my goodness that's terrible as well as unexpected," everything is going according to plan. I'm one step closer to being an only child.

"You're sure Edward's said nothing? He's the one who called them—he thinks I'm trying to kill him?" George is neither clever enough to get away with or plan murder nor is he clever enough to get out of this current situation, or that's what I'm counting on at least.

"He's not, don't worry I'll talk to him," I, naturally, provided Edward with the evidence that our brother wanted to kill him. "I'll get you out, just go with them now, I'll have you free soon enough."

"Why would he think that though? It's ridiculous, I swear this whole family is mad."

"Well that's our mother's fault, remember," I say, "We're all definitely related to her."

"What?"

"Oh nothing, just go along, I'll come by and bail you out presently, I've just got this thing first," I say, wheeling my chair back to unstick it from the door.

"Thing? Why are you dressed like you're going to a funeral?"

"Because I'm going to a funeral, it's one of my classmates and his father, dead, unfortunate, quite a tragedy actually, you know this," I say, finally getting free of the door with no help from him.

"Right, here take my phone if my wife calls---" he tosses me his phone, "Tell her what's happened yeah?"

"Definitely," I say, squeezing his hand, "Go now, don't worry. I'll have you out."

"You probably will," he scoffs, "You're cleverer than me and Edward put together, you know that, Rich?"

"I do in fact, go on now, don't keep them waiting," or myself. I tuck his phone into the pocket of my leather jacket. Sure enough, the police are waiting at the curb for him, looking annoyed which is usually the reaction of anyone who is left in the presence of our mother for too long.