Apprentice's Tale

The Apprentice's Tale

When asked why I did it, revenge was the only motive that came to mind. I did not want to appear as someone who is deranged, babbling on irrationally, trying to prove my saneness to others. I did not want to appear as someone who uses the weakened condition of their mental capacity as an excuse for the crimes they have committed. The things that I have done seem minuscule to the punishment for which I will undoubtedly receive. I can honestly say that I have no fear about dying, only that when I do, I will have no place to go.

My twisted tale starts off much like any other. Up until that moment in which all common sense escaped me, I had led an average and ordinary life. I was an accounting apprentice for Farley and Beckett, one the oldest and more prestigious firms in all of London. It was a position that I had strove for, for nearly two years, and several dozen letters of inquiry, before being taken on as an apprentice. I was learning a trade from one of the best in his profession, though I was merely a gopher for his endless errands and chores. But I did not belittle myself to these subservient tasks for the measly salary itself, no, no. I studied him, copied his every movement, just waiting for the one moment in which all of my tutelage and observance would pay off.

You see my mentor, Charles Edwin Farley, a well known and prestigious man in the community, was more than a mere accountant. He was a genius. Equal parts charming, deceitful, and cleaver, the man knew what cards to play when it came to getting what he wants. His actions went beyond mere swindling and blackmail. Mister Farley, as only a few of close friends ever dared call him by his name, and it was always Charles, never Charlie at that, was a magistrate of injustice. He took it upon himself to balance one vile act out with another. Mister Farley was a master chess player, and his players were his business and social colleagues who were mentally or financially inferior.

I envied him in many ways; and emulated him in nearly every aspect of my daily routine. He bought his suits and hats from Suttleby's on the Square, the finest clothier in England. While I could never dream to ever make such an extravagant purchase from them, I was able to obtain older, gently worn pieces from a second hand clothier near the small one room flat I rented in Wellington. I styled my hair in the short and clean cut manner as Mister Farley. I read from the same paper; I ate the same foods whenever I could afford them.

"You learn their secrets, and they'll scratch your back whenever you demand it of them, my boy," he would cackled, peering over the edge of silver spectacles as he wrote from the leather bound journal he kept. Oh, that blasted book! On more than one occasion I vowed that I would secretly read his memoir, those thoughts of a mad genius. Every occasion on which I displeased or angered him, he would take out that leather-bound journal with the gold faced edges and scribble furiously without relent.

This is where my life, my simple and ordinary and not bad in its entirety, took a turn for the worse. I became obsessed with my performance, always making sure that my figures were accurate and my records were neat and up-to-date. But there was always something, some meticulous detail in which he would seek out and convey it to those blank pages. That book mocked me. I'd watch his fountain pen dip into the ink well, tap the glass rim, and the anger would then pulse through my veins with such hatred that it took all my strength to control it.

And my obsession grew. I found myself constantly peering over my shoulder, wondering if I would find the old man glaring at me, picking apart the way I worked much like the way a vulture picks apart a carcass. On and on he would ramble about decimal points, percentage rates, interest compounded daily, long term liability, on and on until I thought my head would explode! In those last few months, as I walked along the cobbled streets out of the posh neighborhoods of London towards my humble dwelling, my head would throb with an unyielding pulsation. And the more he needled me, the more my concentration became unfocused.