A Machine Without Feelings (Cherik) | ✓

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔒𝔫𝔢

Charles hid behind the heavy crimson curtains in the alcove by the eastern window. It was his favourite little nook; the sun rising in the east always made it the warmest part of the grand Westchester estate in the morning, and Charles always liked the way it overlooked the gardens that were always bright against the stony backdrop of the grey stone mansion. What he liked most about the nook, though, was that it was safe. His stepbrother, Cain Marko, had not found this little corner of peace yet, allowing Charles to tuck his knees up onto the plush cushion seat of the alcove and prop a heavy book across his lap.

"Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens," Charles murmured quietly to himself, wanting to say the foreign words out loud, but struggling to wrap his young tongue around the tough words he was trying to learn. He had almost seen ten winters now, and in the confines of the Westchester mansion - a prison, he had sometimes thought – Charles wanted to drink in any form of knowledge he could. He had always been a genius, as his favourite nurse, Kitty, always told him. Charles soaked up knowledge like the Westchester grass did after a heavy rain, or how Cain's stomach soaked up all of the sweet cakes he ate gluttonously.

This was one of Charles's favourite books; even though he couldn't understand all of the large words, he grasped enough from the words he did know and the pictures to decipher meaning. The sciences had always interested him, more so than Cain's novels about pirates and sea monsters, and found a small kernel of happiness whenever he read about how plants grow and spread.
He often looked at the twisting ivy climbing up the walls of Westchester, unruly and vibrant, alive amongst the dead stones. His mother, Sharon, called them weeds and asked their servants to cut it down when they could, but she often forgot about it all by the time the bottle had emptied.

Charles smiled to himself as he ran his fingers over the long German words, casting his eyes over the pictures of plants and pollen, of seeds and leaves. He didn't know how much time passed, until he heard the bang of an ornate door, his eyes going wide as his entire body froze.

"Where is he?! Where in the dickens is that gibface little meater?!" Charles heard his stepbrother's voice call out, the clack of his shoes deafening on the hard floor. Charles tried to breathe evenly and shallowly as to not make any noise, blue eyes trained on the miniscule slit between the curtains.

He saw Cain prowl past, eyes narrowed into slits in his puffy face. His thick lips were pulled back with a snarl, and his nose sniffed like he could smell Charles's fear. Charles bit down a gasp when Cain's eyes suddenly snapped to his alcove, his feet clunk, clunk, clunking on the wood.

Charles leapt out of the alcove before Cain could find him himself, as if offering himself up as some sort of sacrifice would make Cain go easier on him today.

"Ah, there's our Charlie-boy," Cain sneered, the taller, older boy sauntering over with a smirk. His eyes looked Charles up and down, before focusing on the book cradled against Charles's chest. "What is that book?" Cain demanded, jerking a fat finger against Charles's chest and the book, the smaller boy stumbling back with the force.
"Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens," Charles responded meekly, cowering as Cain snorted.

"You have no business taking our books," Cain said, as if this mansion belonged to him already. It did not. It had originally belonged to Charles's father, Brian Xavier, but when he died it was left in the hands of his mother. If his mother had been any other woman, the estate would have been passed on to Charles. But Charles's mother was a drunk, her mind lost in the drink more often than not; her new husband, Kurt Marko, easily coerced her into giving him everything she owned. Sometimes, Charles thought that included him.

Charles did not often incite violence nor conflict, but it had always irked him whenever Cain would claim everything that Charles's father had carefully cultivated as his. Cain was just like his father, and even though still a child, Charles knew that they were wasting away the vast Xavier fortune on nothing but folly.