Is it normal that i love destruction and go by the name of a fictional character?

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I remember my parents died early when I was very young. I don't even know how young I was back then. I suppose somewhat close seven. They have written their testament long before. My mother was a barmaid and my father owned a pharmacy, which I believe is not common these days. Small fish would be eaten by the bigger. When they'd die I should own what was left of their belongings. The money and the pharmacy with the flat above.
After they died those "friends" of them would live with and take care of me. They did also run the pharmacy. I don't know if this was legal. I guess it was not but I didn't mind then. I tried to help out there as much as I could but I was just a small child. Little did I know then that they were only after the money.
One day, I remember, I stood behind the counter and waited for customers. It must have looked really sad. The neighbour's wife, who went around with my parents and took care of me at times, came and asked for the medicine of her husband. I jumped from the stool and went to the rear to bring her what she ordered a few days ago. I should have asked for his advice as he was a lawyer but I never minded. I can't believe how incautious I've been! Well, she asked how I was feeling and if I needed some help I could always count on her. Then she left. One of my "uncles" called me to the rear for help. Then I remember being dragged into a corner, partly undressed and pushed into a crate. And this crate was brought somewhere else then. And hell it was cold there!
It felt like hours until they would move me from there and put me on the seat of a car or something. I fell asleep there after hours of trials to escape and pleading to be let out. I was so tired, even the crate felt cosy.
I woke up when a strange unfriendly woman tried to open the crate with what I suspect to be a crowbar. She called me "another mouth to be stuffed", grabbed me by the "filthy" hair and pulled me inside the home where she pushed me at another younger woman and told her to take me upstairs for a bath.
It was then that my short life at this children's home started. And though I did like Ms. Huxley, I truly despised ol' Mrs. Alby. The life at the home could be best associated with work and discipline but when Mrs. Alby wasn't present it became a place of hope for all of us lost souls, who have been doomed a life of poverty and solitude. All of us were either abandoned or became orphans by accident or intentionally. Mrs. Alby wouldn't mind our stories. For her, we were cheap working hands. Slaves of a sort since we weren't paid anything. Food wasn't something that we deserved but something we needed to keep working. I didn't want to work like that. And when I would hide and be found sooner or later by that old man who worked there too that day, he would pull me by the ears to Mrs. Alby and she would shout at me I shall not sell her any dogs. What I have thought I was doing, she would ask. And when I croaked back that I was not her slave she would thump me twice for every backtalk. On these days I would spend the night in a cabinet and food was something I wished for.

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  • Anonymous Post Author
    5 years ago

    I believe it to be natural that I often tried to escape this prison. I should be thankful S. Huxley helped me. And I can call myself lucky to have found a family in the Blakewoods that offered me a warm home for a while. But slowly, after one and a half year, it seemed clear I was not part of the family so at a Sunday night I would leave again, this time not clothed in dirty lumps from the children's home, and look out for the place I called home.
    I was ten when a man in a suit with a fly rink ran accidentally into me. He apologised, wondered why such a young man would wander through the streets, outside and on his own that night, and told me to follow but I should never tell anyone, especially not his master, and so I never did. I should mention here that I was not the brickiest boy at that time. I for sure did fear to be sent back to the children's home by the master himself but for some reason that I never was told he found interest in me. I was taught by his servants and when he wasn't busy he would spend time with me and showed me how to play chess, he would ask me about my life and it seemed he would be a sort of adoptive father though way too old to raise a boy of my age, or so I thought. as he asked for my name I did not know how to answer. I was not used to be called by it and I never tried to use it when not sure if I could trust the person I was speaking to. And to be honest, I did not even like to remember it since it made me get the morbs, when not breaking me into pieces completely. So, as I had access to the many books of his, I decided to go by the name of Edward Hyde. I'm sure he never believed me but he at least helped me to gain the necessary documents to make it an official thing.
    I lived with him for years until he died. And while I did I learned a lot. More than I would ever have learned when living in the children's home. He was known by the folks as a philanthropist and a man of responsibility, a venerable gentleman indeed. And rumors said I was his brothers youngest son. It hurts to say I had to discover that his natural son was slightly different. He carried his virtuousnesses too far as that those made him look pompous, prim and uncourteous. Someone you rather would want to miss than to meet. His person made me not up to Dick. but I could not change that we were living under the same roof.
    I don't want to go into detail in what many ways I didn't like him or how many times he would be displeased with my works when he would "try" to be somewhat of a mentor to me. This is not relevant thought he has always seen me as a failure.
    It was when I finally decided to leave this family and have a home on my own when things got complicated. As a result of never being good enough at it, I never worked. Instead, I followed all the nanty narking. I Kruger-spoofed, powdered hair and shook flannins. I lived in basements and stole food instead of living what is nowadays called a "normal life". And with a shiv, I even would steal some chink. Still, I lied to people, pretending to be a gentleman. And as such, I would do as much as necessary to avoid the bigger trouble
    I did have a job once, though. I would be object to certain experiments, even assist those as far as possible (and legal). And or this purpose I was even allowed to keep at the house at night. I, until now, don't know who would trust this skilamalink character of mine to the point of letting them in their house. Especially when their name is Edward Hyde.
    I'm over 35 now and I've still not learned my lessons. I'm not mafficking that much anymore and so you'll see no more cop a mouse, I'm not that much of a gal-sneaker for I've found a beauty for my own, but I still feel the urge to rampage and devastate my surroundings and hurt strangers. I'm easily upset. However I shan't bother about it. Damfino why! This guy I mentioned above has experienced the "harsh revenge". I can't forget it but at the next moment I don't care anymore. It was just an asshole of sorts, nothing more nothing lesser.
    People avoid me. They say, I look strange. Sometimes they are afraid though I'm way smaller than them. I did care some time ago. I did not want them to be afraid. But I don't care anymore. I just do as I please. I'm spoiled but that's okay. For me it became normal.

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