You want to know where I came from, why? I am not your triumphant hero or an upstanding citizen, but if you are so inclined to know, I will tell you. It all starts with that wretched house, my childhood home.
See, the walls of Hodge manor were thin and painted with deceit and the ever so popular politically charged hate speech. If I had to listen to one more fat slobbering aristocrat talk about how so-and-so should fall on his blade and blah, blah, blah should drink a pint of piss. I tell you, it’s enough for a young boy to go mad and sure enough, it was. My parents are to blame, for they constantly entertained these brigands and bastards and were usually the ones to stoke the fire on these nonsensical tropes. The anger and hate I felt towards the world, so ingrained into me… You are better than the commoner, better than thy neighbor. Was I? This is why I ran away from the life of cakes and maids, the life of a prim and proper gentleman. I’m sure I was lined up to marry a charming young political tie or become the face of a labor forced empire, but this was not me.
Street life was tough for a young man like me, constant fights and sparse ingestion of foul but life sustaining scraps. It wasn’t until Charles found me when my life started to change. Charles was a farmer on the edge of town and good one to boot. The fullest crops I have ever seen! He gave me shelter and food as long as I helped tend his herd and harvest his crops. It was the earth, the dirt, the cycle of decomposition to create life that really started to fascinate me. This farm, Charles’ farm, is when it started to happen. I felt the earth flow through me; I belonged in the dirt… this dirt. The crops spoke to me, they whispered to me. Ha, I use to blame the voices I heard on fatigue and lack of sleep, but it wasn’t until that day I dug a little too deep and found out who was actually talking to me.
What I unraveled I tell you, would make your stomach expunge the morning’s tea and biscuits. I’ve always wondered why the crops would grow faster and more luscious than the other farms down the road. It was Charles’ other occupation… his night job… murder. The bodies couldn’t have been decomposing for more than a moons length. At first it was unsettling but for some reason I was not scared. I felt an unflinching curiosity which led me to interrogate Charles instead of tell the authorities. Why and how, Charles? He then proceeded to tell me the stories of the countless people that have gone missing in his gardens. They were all bad and they deserved to be reborn he said, reborn through the dirt and into the crops I’ve been ingesting for a year now. This is when he taught me the art of death and life energies. The dirt and earth hold death and life at its grasp. It is the resting place of the living and the womb of rebirth.
Where is Charles now you ask? He is dead, the farm is dead, the lessons are dead, but I am not. This is why I must continue my knowledge… this is why I am here. Can you please pass me the salt?