Fading Colors, Prologue and Ch.1

 This is a portion of a novella I was writing two years ago, dug it up, thought I should post it. 

Prologue:
I sometimes think that this tale may be the subject of nothing more than a simple observer, both present and absent, surrounded by lines not yet written and vacant pages still to be inked. By my understanding such a perception could only have come about by external factors for which I refuse to find personal fault. Neither can mankind’s flawed interpretation nor their unwelcomed reaction insist upon me bidding otherwise. Unfortunately in the world today responsibility is no longer the product of acceptance but rather; a clever and very sensible assault one imposes upon those who do not suit their standards, in which he neither accepts nor acknowledges the fact that either his actions or lack thereof, have led to a sudden decline in both his peers regarded opinion and his own projected esteem.
I blame myself for that- well more accurately I blame us for that, considering the fact that we are, if nothing more: Simply simulating ignorance towards the disappointing scale within which our own inadequacies so often reach and more so surpass.
I am a simple man, I do not pretend to possess superiority over any person, within my range or extending further, I do however, much to my own detriment, lend a certain pride to my understandings that does not sit well with those of a more simple nature. I apologize for the ponderousness of my introduction but I view most of my own personal qualities much like a surging mirage of colourful deviations and imperfections, accompanied by a rather feeble conscience whose base functionality is simply to attempt control without any expectation of accomplishment.
I believe I would like to end my introduction by promoting the following notion; I simply hope to express the fact that any man who reads this and assumes some kind of comprehension is a fool.
For the man I knew was an exceptional individual, who somehow achieved for himself all he had desired by the unusually devious, yet blind cunning often lent to those whose minds are so fiercely dominated by the seemingly imaginary ignorance so often acquired by men who practice the art of life with a discerning eye. Many would regard it as a most ingenious device of deception, projected by one so shrewd even his own conscience would often fall prey to its trickeries.
Instinctual deviance is quite a controversial and morbidly self-destructive quality, had I not seen much as a young man, I would have believed it nothing more than a myth conceived by the all-consuming, self-sustaining greed afflicting most doctors whose practices may benefit from the existence of such a condition.
Mr. Edward Hartwell was, below the surface, a hollow being, whose emptiness was protected, far beneath a living shield, constructed of twisted souls and unusual specimens stemming from a culture whose minds are nothing more than a distortion of what would be called good, had there been any chance of positivity surviving its proximity. I must say, society so frequently falls prey to the murmurings of broadly famed monsters feigning sobriety that I wonder if we, as a collective, pay any mind to the modes we follow whatsoever, I often entertain the thought that the obvious and alarmingly rapid decline of true skepticism possibly holds responsibility towards the fact that emptiness is no longer a mildly sad curse inflicted upon simple men whose meaninglessness has surpassed all hope for individuality, but instead, has developed into an imperceptible disease whose spread has exceeded humanities populace and now lends its immeasurable energy towards the corrupting the very intelligence that man has become so pathetically reliant on.
I would however stress that the intention of this story is not to embellish or elaborate on any overly contentious philosophies that I may express during its length, but instead to uniquely express my journeys with Mr. Hartwell and those who thrived on the boundless insignificance leant by his mysteriously vacant image.
This is a simple story, which I tell only as an example of the madness held both within and without sanity, of a personality residing beyond the mind, for the mind is a castle, and in the case of Mr. Edmond Hartwell, it is a prison, from which one can only observe, constantly drifting within its own infinite space as if running from the nothingness that so effortlessly haunts, as the mind never moves so does the man remain, ever running still.

Chapter one: Immigration

I suppose the beginning of this story should state the manner in which I made the acquaintance of Mr. Hartwell.
Before I do so I think it would be best to tell you about myself:

My name is Simon Grey, I was born in a place not unlike the south, where ridiculous and disturbingly over religious imbeciles preached fools philosophies and practiced them to the best of their abilities, portraying something of a spiritual witlessness much like the kind very often taken on by those so self-indulged that the saddening truth of their own inadequacy and meaninglessness in such a vibrant and expansive world were simply too complex for their infertile minds to grasp.
Not long after I reached the age of seven my family suffered a great hardship, one which causes me much pain at its mention: the loss of my father. After what my mother deemed a patient grieving period, we decided to move to the city, and it was there that I managed to fill the waterless grey outline given by my birthplace with all the colors projected by the jewels so continuously exhibited within the city and its incredibly energetic inhabitance, I was astounded at the thought of a world so full of such amusing people, all content in their diversity and unusual understanding of how the pieces of the world so intricately placed, lay stationary in simple hesitation, as if almost sure of the impending manipulations to be made by those who understood them.
It was in the city that I learned how to be a man, not a brute, prone to violence and unintelligible measures of masculinity. I learned to be a man of culture, a man of the mind; skilled in nothing more than a simple understanding of composure and adaptation, equipped with an intellect and the rare ability of discernment towards the understandings of both fools and men alike, regardless of residence. I was a clever man, and I would often fall victim to the very fiend to whom most clever men develop such fatal blindness, my own mind, and the source of my painfully eternal need to know things about the world, which most men should simply accept.
After some time in the city, I became bored of its people and their tedious ways, I had developed a certain distaste towards the expressions of man, and the generic individuality so often projected by those who refused to conform only in the hopes of achieving conformation within a minority that as fashion developed further would become a major social cliché.
Time passed and my boredom transformed itself into a hatred for those residing within a world defined so strongly by the vanities and egotisms of modern aristocracy, that class no longer held value. Pride was no longer an attribute worthy of my appraisal, and I had soon developed the opinion that only those who lived in complete obliviousness towards its poison would preserve any hopes of surviving its infinitely powerful seductions.

After my fifteenth birthday, my mother introduced me to a frighteningly pale skinned, middle aged gentleman by the name of Gregory Zurvic, a wealthy foreigner from somewhere across the sea in a country whose name escapes me. My mother had met Mr. Zurvic at an art exhibition she was holding in an upmarket city gallery. The impression was given that they had been intimate for some time, and had obviously come to the agreement that any further secrecy would be far too much a risk towards both parties reputation and as such it would be polite to disclose the nature of their relationship, although the description given left far too much room for speculation. After being informed of their relationship I remained quite skeptical, Gregory did not seem particularly threatening, he did however carry a solemn air about him, as if life were simply a flickering candle in a wild blizzard, and there was something else too, below the surface, a distant creature masked beneath a strong illusion, well aided by false courtesy and overly compensating flattery.
My mother married Mr. Zurvic several months later without any period of engagement and we moved to a part of the city that I had only watched from the top most views of empty urban ruins from not so long lost cultures and whilst doing humble work in the homes of long dead money born monarchs and their families, during my younger days, when the city had still held the kind of magic most children give much of their imagination towards both the conception and maintenance of. What was then a mysterious world filled with colorful cars carrying dark and faded people had now become a horrifying spectacle of greed fueled capitalism, within which resided an undeniably false sense of elegance, projected by men who’s hastily increasing wealth could now, far out buy their remarkably low priced self-worth and trifling personalities.
Over time I became familiar with my step father and he was, to me, a conceited and wicked man, whose brutalities were imposed on all he believed below him -leaving few beyond his reach- a man ruled by deviant and perverse urges, of which there were many and all were eagerly nourished. My mother was no exception to those who suffered the twisted compulsions of Gregory Zurvic, a king amongst cowards. I had attempted to rescue her from the diamond encrusted prison within which she so willingly remained (immobilized by her own insecurities and fear induced excuses), though after accepting the obvious futility, I gave in, surrendering to the agonizing and seemingly undefeatable living embodiment of evil that was my new law bound relative. I began to participate in many of the distractions that most young men in such uncomfortable and halting situations eventually turn to, and those were; all the frivolities and foolish joys that were so infinitely abundant in the city within which circumstance kept me so well caged, my true prison though, was a place in my mind, which even after my escape remains very much alive, one I avoid at the cost of many comforts. My punishment is as much the consequence of my past mistakes as it is a measure of preserving character, and actions never taken until the realization of my own gullibility decided to make its long awaited arrival in the form a man, one of unique qualities and most peculiar understandings.
After a somewhat trivial and very raucous romantic involvement, concerning the daughter of one of Zurvic’s business partners–or perhaps several, my step father thought it would be best to send me across country, somewhere undesirable as much of a cruelty as an attempt to silence my wild lifestyle and end the string of bad publicity that so keenly followed. I was sent off to a town by the name of Grenville to live with an old acquaintance of Gregory’s, although I had a feeling that my residence was more of a repaid debt than it was a friendly favor, my step father had far more debtors than friends.
In the beginning I would have described the town as empty, almost as if the most exciting thing to do would be to fill the seemingly hopeless space that presented itself to those who observed from the external, though my opinion would soon change.
I promptly left home on the morning train to Grenville, it was my belief that my step father had finally realized the futility in keeping me caged within the city, and had decided to free me from his presence, an action towards which I felt nothing but relief, although I maintained the illusion of repulsion, in the fear that any expressed joy may have led his insatiable desire to inflict pain into overriding his concern for a healthier social standing, thus cancelling my minute chance at fractional freedom.

Chapter 2: Arrival

The world into which I was born was-and still is- Horribly cold, considering both General social intelligence and temperature, only one of which would rectified by my relocation.

Grenville was a warm place, I had learned so upon my arrival. On this particular day the sun was hot, and more than capable of draining any moisture the body holds within a day. It was as if the place I had come to had no interest in being occupied by a man of my sort, and was making its best efforts to remove me. Had I any choice in the matter, the necessity of persuasion would dissipate, however it seemed fate – in her mad wisdom – had deemed this an appropriate sentence for my indiscretions. As we reached the house, I was astonished! It was a grand image, and I had yet to see past its gates. The entrance to the estate itself was spectacle enough: Two enormous, green painted, grimly patterned, solid iron gates. They must have stood nearly 20 feet tall at each top, and on each side, two twin eagles, facing each other.

We rang at the bell near the gate and a few moments later a man appeared along the driveway, an old man with grey hair, he wore what I assumed to be a constantly contorted, sully expression and was dressed in entirely in black, except for his shoes, they were brown.

He unlocked the clasp on the gate and preceded to open it. As we drove past he introduced himself, through the window, as Thomas and pointed us in the direction of main House, we followed a long cobblestone driveway for about a mile before we reached the house.

The car stopped and, after paying the driver, removed my luggage and proceeded to the main entrance, I rang a large pewter bell, and waited, after which I sat next to the entrance, on the edge of a pot plant, although it seemed more likely to be a weed that had adopted a vacant pot and flourished in its owners absence.