Post by WILLIAM GREGORY DARCY on Feb 13, 2011 18:53:05 GMT -5
WILLIAM G. DARCY. TWENTY EIGHT. PUBLISHING C.E.O/SOCIALITE.
When looking back at my childhood there is nothing particularly interesting about the way I was raised. My father was absent for most of my life, partly because he worked all the time, and also because I shot him dead the day I turned sixteen. I understand this is a bit too much, too early, to take in and so I guess the only real place is to start at the beginning. I was born in Lake Forest, Illinois to Malcolm and Elaine Frost. My mother had always put a fairy tale spin on the way that they met even though it was previously arranged for them and my father was a philandering womanizer up until their wedding reception. In her mind, as long as he came home to her and didn’t bring any of his whores home—they were fine. My mother was always faithful in her love to that scumbag. When I was born my father was just happy that it was a boy, someone to carry on the name Frost. My father’s family was in steel, his entire lineage had always had control over factories in the north that produces steel for ships and such. I had no interest even though I was practically groomed throughout school to one day fill the position.
My mother, bless her soul, gave me anything a boy could want for. I always had a large imagination and was more interested in the box that the toy came in rather than the toy itself. Most of the toys got donated to charity after sitting around the day room for months at a time still in their packaging. I loved the grounds that our home was built on. It was surrounded by lines of trees and dark places I couldn’t be found when my father stood out on the Veranda calling out for me after particularly loud nights in which he would come home drunk and take it out on whoever was closest to the front door, usually my mother. He never raised a hand to me and that scared me the most, the idea that he could stare across the room at me, his eyes glazed over in pure rage, as he laid into her. My father got down on his knees and begged my mother. She always took him back. I never understood it. She’d cover up the bruises and the cuts and she’d take him back. It was the first secret I had to keep and the one that my mother took to her grave.
I went to a private school with the children of my father’s friends, the ones I was forced into spending time with and joining in their revelry at other student’s expenses. I always made a good impression. It’s just who I am you see. My mother always taught me that whenever you feel like criticizing any one; just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had. She was right, and for the most part I followed those words very closely. I was on the swim team, got good grades, appeared alongside my father at his events with a smile on my face, and whenever I got the chance I would. My mother was getting sicker and my father got worse in his punishments for her. It was on one particular night in which I had seen and heard enough. Something snapped in me that I couldn’t quite describe, even to this day.
I heard the yelling from downstairs and ran down them so quickly I knew I I’d fall down them if I wasn’t skimming my hand over the banister. He was standing over her in the kitchen, he was mad. She screamed at me to leave and go back upstairs but I had enough of it all. I went into his office where I knew he kept a gun in his second drawer of his desk. The idea was to scare him into leaving the house. I heard a crash and ran in to see he had smashed a plate that she had put in the over for him since he was late for dinner. He threw it at her and blood dripped down from a cut on her leg. I held the gun up to him and he just sneered at me as if to call my bluff. He knew then that he would never exist to me again. When he started coming towards me I could see this immense look of satisfaction in his eyes and I pulled the trigger. I didn’t stick around Illinois after that; it’s been seven years since that day.
I went west and worked under a different name in whatever job I could get. By far my favorite job was given to me by a man named Eugene Darcy. He was an editor of an influential paper on the west coast for many years before opening a publishing house of his own. I started as his assistant at age eighteen. I worked my ass off for him and when I turned twenty three it finally paid off. He taught me everything he knew and took me into his family as if I were his own. I loved writing and it seemed I had a knack for knowing the good stuff from the bad. There was something about telling a story that I wanted to do more than anything in the world. Because I loved it so much, my life became one. I was a blank slate at eighteen; I lost my family, changed my history, and haven’t looked back since. Darcy passed away three weeks before he handed over the company to me. The stockholders didn’t have very much confidence in a twenty eight year old running a publishing house but the words written in his will and the wise decision to take on a partner who had been in the firm for years. He would stay on as a partner until I could run the company by myself.
There were legal issues that arose, especially since my own parents had passed away and I was to take on responsibility as a Frost. The solution, I sold the company and changed my last name officially to Darcy. I kept my families money in the sale though and have to say I did pretty well for myself. The publishing house was located in Philadelphia and so moving right outside on Pierce Island was the logical choice. I moved into Eugene’s old home, a quite nice manor if I do say myself. It seems that no matter how hard I’ve tried to keep my past behind me it tends to bob along the surface every now and then. The lies just get deeper and the more I do it the more I become this character. The person I’ve always wanted to be. William G. Darcy and not Gregory M. Frost. Parties every night, money to blow on whatever, and the type of life that one could really grow accustomed to.
JACK. TWENTIES. EST. TIME ZONE. THIRTEEN YEARS.
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