Every family has a past. Some a story in need of telling, of rehashing. Others a story in desperate need of coming out of the shadows the tales had been dwelling in like hostages choking on stale air. Many families have a bond, a connection subtle yet palpable. But for this particular family?
Oh, how I chuckle with sardonic delight...
This family has a rich history to rival that of kingdoms coated in war and intrigue but I wonder what their future will be? You see, dear reader, there are nine place settings at the table. Nine family members.
One murder that unravels the delicate threads upholding the tapestry of the perfect image of the House of Bloodworth. Brave enough to be a guest?
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On-page sexual content
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"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to inspect the items placed in the center of the table."
The nine family members of the House of Bloodworth shared looks before giving the random objects their attention. Looks of displeasure graced some blue blood features while one or two family members curled their lips at the display of a stupid waste of time. In this moment they were for the first time in years, united in their mutual annoyance.
All but one.
The youngest member seated at the elaborately outfitted formal dining table was watching everything with the shrewdness of a hawk, his eyes taking in and cataloging every random item placed strategically as though to appear innocent in the center of the centuries old wooden dining table crafted by the magical hands of George Hepplewhite himself as a personal favor to Lord Bloodworth in London, England in the year 1762, fourteen years before Hepplewhite's death. The table had seen many tears, many pained expressions, and grief racked features. It had heard the sounds of shrill demands, barked commands, and passive aggressive claims. It was a table that had witnessed countless arguments, betrayals, broken hearts, trust being shattered, and hope dissolved by family member after family member.
The table bore the weight of the fights, of the arguments, the disagreements, the highs and the lows. Its wood absorbed the triumphs at the expense of others, the setbacks from disloyal family members, the cries and gasps of ecstasy and the shouting of cousins who had grown apart like splintered wood after a bullet introduces itself to the bark of a tree.
The table that had once been crafted with love, talent, skill and true affection for the Bloodworth family now held its legs sturdy under the weight of not friendship between Lord Bloodworth and George Hepplewhite but under the weight of a family shredded from the inside out.
A family that shares the same last name.
A family that has no qualms of stabbing one another's back.
A family that smiles and touches in public but slaps and strips away dignity and sheds faux honor behind closed doors.
A family that vocalizes unity and the importance of a strong family equating a strong legacy yet out of the public's eye destroys dreams, futures, and any illusions of happiness.
This is the House of Bloodworth. You are now a guest in this house.
You are to observe quietly and unobtrusively.
You may form opinions and beliefs, yet you will remain silent.
It is not your place to build emotions based on opinions from this evening.
You are a guest.
Not a participant.
You have been granted access into the intimate scenes of the family that calls this residence the House of Bloodworth.
House not home.
Home is where love is invited and nurtured.
They were called a family yet resembled nothing similar to that warm title.
They were strangers yet familiar. Playmates yet rivals. Companions yet opponents.
The oldest cousin looked up at the family's estate manager with a perfectly concealed snarl on her freshly Botox forehead.
"What exactly do you have us wasting our time on, Clarence? I have an engagement I committed to for the evening. I was under the impression that this was to be a quick tete a tete, not an awkward family dinner with people I don't even exchange emails with. Why the fuck have you manipulated us all into sitting down at this ugly table?"
The appalled gasp of the second cousin sounded clear as a bell, "You know I don't like that word. Remove it from your vocabulary."
The man seated at the head of the table nodded his head, placating the second cousin, whom everyone knew was his favorite. "Come now, there's no need to be vulgar and crass. I'm sure you're sorry for offending your sister." He turned his politician eyes onto his oldest daughter, his expression relaxed and sincere. The white knuckled grip on his knife told an entirely different story, however. The uncle to the father of the two female cousins cleared his throat from his position at the other end of the table.
"I would rather we be frank with one another as opposed to-"
The oldest cousin raised her hand in the air dismissively, "Oh yes, I'm sure you would love for us all to act like heathens and share our uncorrected and uncensored opinions and emotions. We can't all live in a fairy tale like you, Uncle." The disrespect was plain for all to see. The second youngest cousin, known condescendingly as the peace maker of the four cousins lowered his head, not wanting to absorb the toxic fumes permeating the air from each family member's vile mouths.
The deception, the manipulation, the tentacles of verbal abuse were unappetizing food for one to consume on an empty stomach.
Clarence the family's estate manager shared a sympathetic look with the Uncle's wife. She accepted it with a regal nod of her head, her Grace Kelly features morphing back into a blankly serene expression once more. No one commented on the fact that she was on her fourth glass of chardonnay. No one dared to bring up the amount of time they had all been seated at the table.
No one wanted the Aunt's tranquil facade to crack.
Some family members controlled and reined power with words, some with physical abuse. Others like the Aunt, sharpened their arsenal of weapons in the form of body language.
It was beyond effective and doled out punishment in such a manner that the impact was severe and lingering. Lasting long after the interaction with the Aunt.
Some family members were narcissists that needed to get off on controlling circumstances to in effect control people. Some family members were narcissists that needed to get off on controlling people to in effect control circumstances.
It was and is a vicious cycle that bred resentment, ulcers, alcoholics, and unadulterated pain and rage.
The perfect nesting grounds for the unraveling about to take place within the walls of this house.
"Oh, shut up, V-"
Clarence clapped his hands, simultaneously interrupting the second oldest cousin and bringing everyone's attention to his friendly smile.
"Please Mrs. Bloodworth, let us dispense with our first names this evening-"
The father of the two oldest cousins threw down his napkin in disgust, his low opinion of the family's estate manager needing no words to convey his feelings towards the man.
"You may help with the running of this family's holdings but that in no way grants you authority to interrupt my children. You have some nerve taking it upon yourself to invite us to dinner as if we were your wayward children in need of hand holding. You stand there and make eyes at my Uncle's wife and then have the audacity of refusing my daughter her God given right of her own name? Who exactly do you think you are?"
The man's sister glared at him, hating him intensely for outing Clarence's behavior, though she resented that the Aunt was the recipient of the looks and not herself. She refused to take her brother's side even though their Aunt was seated at their Uncle's left hand of all things. If it were any other man making eyes at her Uncle's wife she would be insulted at the barbaric behavior. But it was Clarence.
Oh, how she hated these things. They were trivial and accomplished nothing to say the least. The only bright spot was Clarence. Sweet Clarence.
His kind smile could melt away the most stubborn anxiety and bouts of heavy clouds of depression. His eyes a warm balm to her lonely heart.
Her husband on the other hand was not amused at his wife's thoughts. After roughly twenty years of marriage, he could read her like a book. Could practically feel on his own skin underneath his tailored clothes her heart pitter pattering for the other man who boasted only a light silvering at his temples. It was disgusting. At least he married for the family and not out of love or genuine affection. Still a woman's place, a wife's place was to be completely devoted to only her lawfully wedded husband. Anything less than that was adultery.
He had no tolerance for it.
None.
He was a man of ethics and scruples, expecting, no, demanding the very best of behavior and treatment from others because of the many and frequent speeches he gave, were written by the hands of an intern freshly graduated from Yale, portray him as a God-fearing man to the general public.
He loathed a breaking of commitment, whether that was in the form of relationships or business. It mattered not, a vow broken was a vow broken and it created a portal into one's soul for the viewer to truly see just how immoral and weak the other was.
He hated cheaters.
He had no tolerance for them.
He hated adultery, after all that was one of the main bullet points that little snot nosed Yale graduate printed on his index cards to memorize for the fundraiser event last month. It was a smash. Went off without a hitch. He looked like the true American family man. It was an incredible night.
The index cards only told of what lay in his heart of course.
Adulterers like the woman he took as his wife roughly twenty years ago, generated no grace or mercy from him.
He had no tolerance for them.
His three mistresses would tell you differently though. They, aside from his wife obviously, are thoroughly enjoying his so-called lack of tolerance for adultery.
In fact, you might even go so far as to say they were... satisfied.
Clarence cleared his throat, a congenial smile on his masculine features, features more rugged than those of the Bloodworth men seated around the table with their aristocratic blue blood features. His hands remained clasped behind his back; fingers being warmed by the slow burning fire. The logs periodically cracked and popped as the fire claimed more territory, infusing the cold house with a warmth that would go unappreciated and dismissed. Taken for granted just as anything and everything else.
"This evening you will go by an alias. Since you all happen to enjoy playing games so much why don't we create a board where the rules are unclear, the team’s undecided and forever shifting and the motives undetermined but always present. Shall we begin?"
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