All of the King's Men.

Chapter 1.

It was a pretty building, though it was more of a mansion or a manor that just a simple building. It was old, and large, and cleaned until it shined, and there was a comforting, old world feel about it. Inside the building-manor-mansion, everything was elegant: velvet curtains hung in every long, panedwindow; gold and silver chandeliers hung throughout the place, and the all the china had been polished and dusted, just as it was everyday. Everyone in the whole city loved that building, it was always bright and cozy, a fire always flickering gently in its hearth. It reminded them of the finer things that they too would have one day.

But for the two boys who’d lived there all their lives, it wasn’t special. It never had been. A lot of things would happen in the big brick mansion with the ivy that edged up the walls and the seemingly endless sets of china dishes, but nothing that made it feel particularly special. A couple would get married, and in a few of their truly romantic moments, would end up with two little dark-haired boys, one now eleven and one eight. The boys would grow up in the big house, one without a father, and the other without his mother, despite living with both of them. They would learn and play, catch coldsand break things, like all other children their age, though one would be abused and the other misguided, in the big, cozy house in the middle of town. The couple would have good times, like when one of the maids offered to watch the boys and they went out to the dingy little café down the block and stayed there, laughing and joking, until they were kicked out at closing; and they would have bad times, they fought and argued like clockwork, and though they ignored it to the best of their abilities, it bothered both of the boys.

Their arguments persisted and quickly shifted into violent quarrels, until one day, the unthinkable happened. Now, the boys’ father was usually a very thoughtful man, and he nearly always considered the outcome of everything he did, in every situation. And he was, in fact, thinking through his actions when, in the midst of one of their arguments he pulled out a knife and struck his wife. It was gruesome, and he knew exactly what he was doing. He died that same night.

It left their boys in a dreadful state of shock, and all alone in the big brick building. They were left with that awful feeling of dread that no one can ever truly shake. And the house was left just as empty and numb as the boys.

Pots and pans hung shining around the large kitchen, which resembled that of a fancy restaurant more than it did that of a house. At one edge of the room, the youngest boy was leaning over the heavy marble countertop, a knife in his hand. He sighed, half somberly, half in relief. It felt like the first time he’d gotten a moment of peace in a while, although it probably wasn’t. It had been nearly a year since his parents died, and most of the press that had been relentlessly hounding both boys had begun to die down. But for the younger boy, it felt like yesterday. He was still reminded of it everyday, and hadn’t even begun to forget about either of them. It always amazed him how his brother no longer seemed to be bothered by the loss. He couldn’t understand how he had gotten over it so easily. But then again, his brother wasn’t in the room when in happened; he was. Sometimes, that was all he would see when he’d close his eyes at night, aiming for sleep; his efforts to rest were always returned with dreadful nightmares and horrid replays of that awful night.

            But enough of that, on with the story: He stepped up to the marble countertop, knife in hand. The boy had recently grown tall enough to stand over the counter almost properly, and he ate there more often than not, in a way, trying to show off his newfound almost-talent. The last slice of cherry pie was starring up at him kindly from its shiny silver pie plate on the counter.

            Cherry pie was his favorite—it’s everyone’s favorite, isn’t it?—and he had been looking forward to this moment for the better part of the evening. The knife had been for cutting the pie, but it seemed that he wouldn’t need it, since it was the last slice. He slipped the knife under the crust and popped it out onto an incredibly clean china plate. The younger son grabbed a bright and shiny silver spoon and started back across the huge kitchen.