The House Master

About the Characters: Vincent

I'm not good at writing children, leave me alone. I was playing around with different writing styles in this chapter, tell me what you think.
TW violence.

10 Years Ago.

It's not fair. It's not fair!

His bruised body feels aflame, writhing in searing pain.

Cedric Phantomhive smokes cigars. He smokes cigars and dumps the ashes onto the carpet. Vincent watches from his spot on the floor in front of the television.

Their old-money mansion is decorated as it was in the seventies, its old wallpaper browned and falling off the walls. The navy blue, velvet couch is torn and lumpy, but Vincent isn't allowed on that anyway. Children are noisy and dirty, and aren't allowed on the furniture.

Cedric Phantomhive hates noise. He hates even the sight of his son, but he especially hates Vincent's voice.

"If you don't stop staring at me,"

Vincent looks away. His father doesn't make threats, doesn't even add an 'or else'. Just 'If you keep staring at me,'

As if daring Vincent to test him.

Vincent goes back to watching TV, some cop drama called Taggart. Vincent loves cop dramas, he likes the villains best. They're all so cool and poise, pristine and confident. Like his father was in those old pictures of him from the sixties and seventies. Confident, attractive, successful. That's what Vincent aspires to be.

He imagines himself in a crisp suit walking down a New York highway, smoking a cigarette and chatting up a blonde girl. Maybe he could be a pickup artist or a conman. A white collar criminal sitting in a Wall Street office in front of a skyline window - that's how he pictures himself.

"Dammit, you bloody brat, I told you to stop staring at me," Cedric grabs Vincent by the collar and wrenches him up to his full height. The man is so tall, or rather Vincent is so short, that he towers over him. Vincent can't wait to be tall, tall people are strong.

Claudia comes out the kitchen and surveys the scene before her. "Cedric, please, he's only six," she pleads docilely.

He narrows his eyes and throws Vincent down. "No, I warned the little bugger!"

A white hot pain sears across the back on Vincent's neck. He lies on his front, feeling the pulsing burn. The cigar put out on the back of his neck, branding him as 'bad'.

"You know you're not bad, Vincent," Claudia soothes him that night before bed, smearing cream on the wound.

"Father thinks I am,"

"Your father just gets angry sometimes, but he loves you," she smooths down his hair and kisses his forehead. "And we love him,"

"Yes mother," Vincent agrees, even if he hasn't felt a day of love for the man in his life.

*

4 Years Later.

"I hate him," Vincent scoffs, walking along the riverbank with Diedrich. His satchel clutched in his tight fist, he takes in the light summer breeze wafting through the thin fabric of his cotton school uniform. It feels almost like the freedom of nakedness.