BLACK RED BLOOD WHITE

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

It was a foggy day, much like any other. My father had bestowed upon me a terrible gift: despair. Despair had sustained me thus far, nurturing me through a consistent partnership that stole my breath and desire, flattening and solidifying the metabolism of my emotions until it extinguished. However, in its recess, it birthed another formidable force: resentment.

I brooded with anger as I observed my new fascination. A statuesque blonde with long, slender legs, and elegantly shaped knees, like the legs of a giraffe, swayed her hips with mesmerizing circular motions—right, left, and then left, right, mirroring each movement.

The house had erupted in chaos. The garage, the machines, our little diversions collected over years of selection—all reduced to lifeless, charred remnants.

It wasn't that wickedness was born in me because of my father; it's just that, when one dies, they typically rest in peace. Instead, he had always lingered in my ear, repeating words that made me increasingly uneasy. I was inherently malevolent, relishing in the suffering of others.

They could perceive fear and that exquisite moment when they realized it was all over for them. There was no escape from the inevitable future, from what they envisioned would be done to them, which invariably surpassed their wildest imaginations.

Was I cruel? No, merely different. Not savage. I didn't annihilate populations for profit, spread diseases through the air, traffic in weapons, or consume meat from industrial farms. I had chosen amusement as a means to combat the boredom of an ordinary life—the doctoral title, the noble responsibilities, creating offspring, raising them, being upstanding, loyal, and honest.

And then what? And then nothing. The family home had been blown to bits like a poorly constructed Lego set, my Bentley reduced to a pile of twisted metal, and my precious, compartmentalized companions, the most exquisite I had ever adored, burned alive, tethered to their cribs, with no hope of rescue. Some were even carrying my unborn children.

My team had worked tirelessly amid the debris, gathering and concealing the mutilated bones and charred remains. They were now interred among the roses in the garden, nurturing the soil.

I still couldn't fathom how one woman, that robust gymnast, had unleashed a flurry of blows, incapacitating my entire team. Archibald, driven by intense sexual passion, had met his end, crushed by his own motorcycle. Unbelievable, as he was a man of voracious carnal appetites. Watching him impregnate his companions had been as comical as watching "The Simpsons" on Christmas Day by the fireplace.

Yet certain aspects didn't add up. How had the police car moved on its own, and why had the garage door opened? I vividly remembered locking it with the motorcycle inside to prevent the beautiful Helena from escaping. I had sensuous plans for her—I wanted to remove her womb to study it, to observe how female organs evolved in masculine women. Yet, she had the audacity to beat me like a schoolboy stealing her snack. Shameful, for his virility and because of his title; after all, he was an earl.

He had relocated to the country house, a logistical challenge, far from town and the crossroads that halted the beautiful ones on their journey to London. But, as optimists tend to find a silver lining, it possessed intriguing architectural possibilities. There was a cellar, at times wider than the house's perimeter, accessible only through a single entrance, cool and refreshing, yet not damp. It provided perfect preservation for their limbs and created space for their games—the operating room, the infirmary, and the training ground for future fighters, all within the span of a few flights of stairs.

Mrs. Boff had also perished, having jumped. Her limbs were found scattered, reaching as far as her residence's lobby—ears, skull, arms, legs—ripped apart within seconds, likely very close to the detonation's epicenter. I mourned her loss; Mrs. Boff was invaluable. She prepared a delightful broth using the young ladies' arms, meticulously cutting their fingers with her nails, creating five or six slices that simmered for hours. The flavor was exquisite, the cartilage possessed a unique meaty richness and was rich in iron. I would never savor such a broth again, and she had always silently attended to the household chores, picking, cleaning, and disinfecting. Priceless.