Sons of Death

Chapter 1: The Deadly Fall of Meriwether P. Soros

Chapter 1

~ The Deadly Fall of Meriwether P. Soros ~

 Meriwether P. Soros had always been attached to Death. If not for his fascination with darkness and mortal mystery, then perhaps for the strange incident that occurred when he was very young.....

            Soros lived with his mother in the suburban city of Cottonsmouth, England. He was the fourth child of five, fourth after three siblings that had been “too sick to leave the womb” as his mum always said, and elder to the child currently distending his mother’s belly. They occupied a small, two-story house on Quarter Street. It was a considerably run-down little structure with fraying walls and falling shingles that often threatened the unassuming passerby, and sat quite comfortably within the generally decaying nature of the area.

 Despite the poor quality of the house, Meriwether and his mother were running on the last sands of the hourglass. The eviction notice nailed to the front door officially expelled them at promptly seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Meriwether and his mother would have been gone long before, if not for Meriwether’s father. Before catching a train to Wales and disappearing from their lives forever, Mr. Soros had paid a year’s worth of mortgage bills. That year had expired a couple of months ago. Mrs. Soros, making the meager wages of a seamstress, barely scraped together enough money to put a meal on the table each day. There was absolutely no fathoming of meeting the expected house dues.

            Meriwether felt little sadness at leaving the only home he’d ever known. He never was a very social boy, you see. He preferred the solitude of a good book or a lonely walk along the shambles of Quarter Street. There were no friends to leave behind, no places abandoned, nothing uniquely Cottonsmouth. Books could easily be moved, and their new home was sure to provide even better scenery for his walks – if their money was anything to go by. He had no qualms about moving.

            He mused about this as he tucked his few possessions into an old laundry bag. A couple of ragged shirts, trousers that his mother had patched together an infinite number of times, a ball of plaid pants, a pair of black boots, two leather notebooks, and his cracked spectacles were carefully arranged under his steady hand. Meriwether took extra care with his last article, a well-worn, but well-kept copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. He had initially desired to bring his copies of Dracula and Frankenstein too, but had ultimately decided to sell them for fifty pence each with the hope of purchasing new literature to read.

            With his belongings together, he sat at the window sill and watched the prosaic scene outside his second-story window. A shred of paper tumbled across the cobblestone street in the gentle wind. It flailed through a couple of positions before coming to a stop against a discarded milk jug. Muffled screeching drew his attention to a couple of crows at the far shoulder of the street. Squawking and fluttering their wings madly, the birds squabbled over the carcass of a mouse. He could not make out the vermin from this distance, of course, but remembered coming upon it during his walk earlier in in the day. The potent aroma of death had told him of the rat’s presence before the remains were even in sight. Even so, curiosity led him to stoop down on the pavement for a closer look. The rat had probably fallen victim to the wheel of a passing cart; its tail was severed in half and had trailed a line of blood to the animal’s resting place. Its eyes were still open, though it was completely lifeless, showcasing the infamous distant gaze of the Dead.

   “Meriwether!” his mother shouted, “Supper!”

He dispelled the images from his mind and hopped from the sill. He took his time at the staircase despite his rush to the table, familiar with the dilapidated state of the wood. It creaked and bent unnaturally beneath his feet in a cacophony of horrible noises. In a couple of places, mold and termites had borne gaping holes in the worn slabs. He often worried of falling straight through. A delightful image of a miscalculated step, cracking his head against whatever mess lay below, and spending his final moments watching a torrent of wooden shards construct his very own homemade coffin spread through his mind. Meriwether grit his teeth at the thought and pushed on. Miraculously, he reached the bottom of the staircase without the slightest brush with death and headed towards the dining room.