The Garden of Fibs and Sin (Filthy Fibbers, Prequel)

I'm a Darling

HI, MY NAME IS DANIEL Patrick Darling II. I know what you're going to say, "All men with Roman numerals in their names are douchebags." Well, you didn't miss the mark on that one. I am a twenty-five-year-old douchebag. Things have always come easy for me. I have money. Well, my family has money. I can buy anything I want and do whatever I like. I was raised to act as if I am better than other people are. Basically, I was brought up to be a privileged douchebag. It's not my fault. I don't mean to be an asshole. Sometimes I just say or do the wrong thing. My mouth has a mind of its own, and so does my penis. Oh, and I can blame vodka for my poor decision-making. Grey Goose made me do it.

My family owns Darling Pharmaceuticals, the largest pharmaceutical company on the east coast. It's run by my mother, Veronica Darling. I say, "Run by" loosely. She doesn't know what the fuck she is doing. Veronica just sits in a boardroom once a month and people tell her what is best for her company. They use her for her signature.

My grandfather, Daniel Patrick Darling started the company. I don't remember him much. The last memory I have of him was when I was six years old, and I watched him fall down our mansion staircase. His neck snapped somewhere on the way down. I was playing with miniature toy luxury cars in the foyer. I watched as he tumbled down and landed on the beige marble floor. His head was cracked open, and blood slowly exuded on the newly polished floor. My mother ran down the staircase screaming, "Oh no!" She wasn't upset over what I just saw or the fact that my grandfather had just died. She was distraught over the blood on her beige marble floor. She had Rosie, our maid, scrub that area for hours after the body was taken away. Veronica was convinced it was not clean enough!

Ideally, Darling Pharmaceuticals should have then gone to my father, Grant Darling, but he passed away from cancer a year before my grandfather died. I don't remember my father much. Most of my memories of him consisted of him being in the hospital. His battle with cancer was long.

People had told me that my mother was a different person back then. Back when my father was alive, everyone called her, "Roni," but after his death that stopped. They said, "The light in her died." Judging from the photos I have seen, they were right. Her long flowing golden blonde hair and sparkling green eyes have been replaced with saddened dullness. People said when my father died; her heart was broken. She became cold and distant. I suppose I get my coldness from my mother. I was mostly raised by nannies and maids. I only saw Veronica at dinner. It was as if the sight of me was too much heartache to handle.

Veronica has run the company ever since my grandfather's passing. I was supposed to take over on my eighteenth birthday, but I turned it down. I told my mother I wanted to enjoy some life a little bit, go to college, and not have to be tied down. Really, I just wanted to party, fuck a bunch of guys and do what I wanted. I mean, come on, running a company at eighteen? That's too young. Responsibility was a word I was not familiar with. Veronica said she would run the company indefinitely, and it would be left to me in her will. I'm hoping she's like a goddamn cockroach and lives forever. I don't want the fucking company!

I may not have to worry about inheriting the family business after all. Currently, my future seems bleak at best. Why, you ask? Well, someone I thought I knew, someone I thought I trusted, just hit me over the head with a shovel. I really hope it doesn't leave a scar. It sucks when you are loved by few, but hated by many. I never even saw this one coming, but it all makes sense now. At least he didn't hit me in the face. I kept thinking, No, No! Not my gorgeous face!

Currently, my unconscious body is being dragged across the ground with no respect for my designer ensemble. This shirt is fucking Burberry for Christ sakes! These grass stains will never come out! My right hand brushed up against the rose bushes and caused it to be scratched up by the thorns. Little droplets of blood fell into the grass. My assailant didn't seem to care, and he merrily hummed some creepy song as he manhandled me. He even started to sing it aloud:

I'll paint these roses red

I'll spill your blood

And hack you up,

Cause soon you will be dead!

I'll paint these roses red... with your blood!

He let out a chuckle at the end. Like an evil mastermind in a cheesy movie. He had a decent voice, despite the creepiness. I should have known he was bat shit crazy. I should have listened to Ethan. If only I would have listened to his warning. He was right. I could have avoided this whole thing. Oh, the shoulda-woulda-couldas, but there was no going back now. I deserved this. I deserved all of this and, unfortunately; it was not over. Revenge never ends until everything and everyone around it is destroyed. A vengeful heart never rests.