"It was me who killed him." He made the decision with a firm, final tone, the soft sound of a strike falling after the words.
Not hearing any expression of surprise from Eloise, he began to speak slowly. Strangely, what he had once thought would be hard to say, in the invisible darkness, didn't feel as difficult to share as he had imagined.
Isidore was born in a secluded town. His mother passed away early, and his father, when he was still very young, left the family, claiming to be working. He never sent any money, and they didn't see him for seven or eight years. It was as though he had no father at all. In this environment, his sister, Everett, was not only his sibling, but also the embodiment of both their parents.
Everett was unreliable, clumsy in her actions, and carefree in personality. Fortunately, she was clever, lively, and sociable, making friends easily. With the help of some relatives and neighbors, the siblings managed to avoid starvation, and their lives passed uneventfully. In such circumstances, Isidore's character was entirely different from what it is now. He was a silent and indifferent young man at that time.
He was excellent in his studies. When he started high school, he was sent to the city to study. He stayed in the school dormitory and occasionally returned home on weekends. He no longer saw Everett as often as when they were younger. He didn't know that Everett, unwilling to stay in the empty house, went out at night and made bad friends, who then bullied her.
That night, after receiving the call, he rode his bike over thirty kilometers to the town hospital at the fastest speed he had ever managed, in the dark hours before dawn. Everett was lying in the hospital bed, her dress stained with blood and dirty water, her face swollen to a huge size. "My sister... she was actually very beautiful," Isidore said, pausing for a long time after those words.
Eloise's hand reached out at that moment, grasping his. "No, it is not your fault," she said, her words sounding hollow.
Because those people were minors, they settled with money, and the sentences were not long. Even more unfortunate, Everett fell ill because of this. At this time, Isidore's father returned and said to him, "Focus on your studies, I will take care of your sister." He took all the money from the settlement, yet everyone praised him as a good father.
The rumors in the small town were unreasonable. Everett was portrayed as a frivolous person who brought her suffering upon herself, and she was pointed at wherever she went. As her condition worsened, she simply stopped going to school and stayed at home all day. During this time, only Lucienne would often visit her during her breaks, encouraging her.
Later, when Isidore looked back, he realized that was probably the only light and warmth his sister had before she passed away. At that time, he had not yet realized the immense psychological torment she endured at home.
The first time he noticed something was wrong was when he came home early one day and saw his father yanking his sister's clothes out of the washing machine and throwing them on the floor in a rage. "Who told you to throw those clothes in? Don't you know you're sick? It's fine if those dirty things infect me, but what if they infect your brother!"
Isidore heard a ringing in his head and shouted, "Dad!" Everett, who was being scolded with her head lowered, saw him and her expression changed. She ran out of the door. Isidore searched until nightfall and finally found his sister by the river. The faint light cast from the shore illuminated her thin face, and the carefree, naive joy of the past had completely vanished from her features.
Yet she was trying hard to pretend otherwise. Isidore looked at her forced smile with discomfort, and after a long struggle, he finally gathered enough strength to ask, "Does he treat you like this at home?" Everett shook her head, opening her mouth, but no words came out. She took Isidore's hand in hers. "Isidore, don't think too much. Focus on your studies, I am fine. Let's go home."
Isidore stayed awake the entire night, thinking about how to tell Everett that he planned to transfer back to the town to continue his studies. He heard the sound of the gate opening and closing, thinking it was his father sneaking out for a late-night drink, and paid no attention to it. The next morning, Everett was found in the river.
Isidore attended his sister's funeral with a quiet composure. He left home and did not return to school; he had devised a plan. The ones who had bullied his sister—he would kill them, one by one. A young boy of about ten, his hand, which once held a pen, now coated with blood.
When only one person remained, he met Mr. Ravenscroft. This person had some connections, and the deaths of the previous wrongdoers had frightened him, so he sought refuge with Mr. Ravenscroft. In front of Mr. Ravenscroft, Isidore slit his throat with a single stroke.
Mr. Ravenscroft was surprised, smiling, "You're really not giving me face. You're not afraid of death. How about coming to work for me?" Isidore had no interest in joining the underworld; he genuinely believed it was a group of ruthless criminals driven by desire. But after a moment of silence, he said, "Unless you help me kill someone."
Mr. Ravenscroft became interested, "Who? You're so capable, why not kill him yourself?" "I can't kill him," Isidore said, "He's my father."
In less than a week, Isidore had become completely alone in this world. He looked at his father's belongings, but felt nothing, for he had already sold his soul to Mr. Ravenscroft. For years, he hadn't thought there would be any other possibility for his future—until he met Eloise.
Telling her these things was not to cleanse the image he had in her heart; there was nothing to cleanse. He had entertained thoughts of murder, but unable to carry it out himself, he had others do it for him. In the end, it was still patricide. He thought after selling his soul to Mr. Ravenscroft, he wouldn't care anymore, but this past had become a forbidden topic in his heart.
He remained numb as long as he didn't deliberately bring it up. Once exposed, it felt like being torn apart from the inside. Now, he had completely torn himself open, and after the pain, he felt relieved.
After hearing it, Eloise couldn't find the right words. Her own parents weren't great, but compared to his father… well, no need to compare the two scums. With such a childhood, it was only natural for him to occasionally lose his composure, lack empathy, and experience moments of mental instability—this could already be considered a healthy and robust growth.
Eloise didn't know what to say, so she simply stretched out her hand and hugged him, saying, "Let's go to sleep." She pulled half of the towel covering Isidore over to cover herself, and the two of them fell asleep, curled up on the ground.
The next morning, Eloise was woken up by the "ping-pong" sound of someone bumping into the wall. She saw Isidore groping his way to the bathroom and couldn't help but feel annoyed: what terrible memory, how could she forget to tell him about the antidote again? She quickly got up, helped him with his arm, and brought him to the toilet, casually asking, "Do you need me to help you take off your pants?"
Isidore remained silent for a long while. She looked up in confusion, only to find that his usually composed face displayed a hint of unease. Upon closer inspection, she noticed a faint blush beneath his sun-kissed skin. Eloise swallowed nervously, and an idea suddenly popped into her head: maybe she shouldn't tell him for now; it felt like… it would be more fun that way.
"Ah-hem," she thought with a mischievous smile, deciding to go through with it. She reached out and began to undo Isidore's pants. "I'll help you." Isidore, still unaccustomed to not being able to see, struggled to catch her quick hands. Flustered by his own clumsiness, he turned his head away, surrendering himself to her.
She hadn't expected him to be so "bashful" at times. Eloise secretly laughed and, after unbuttoning his pants, asked deliberately, "Do you need me to help hold you up?" Isidore, with restraint, turned his head back. "No need. You can leave now."
Eloise, of course, wouldn't listen. Her gaze, fixed on him with such intensity, seemed as though it had hands of its own. Isidore, unable to see, nonetheless felt an inexplicable chill crawl over him. She watched him methodically clean himself and thought back to when he had done the same for himself long ago. She couldn't help but feel a sense of irony—what goes around comes around.
The days spent in the basement were even more boring than when he was confined to the villa. To entertain herself, Eloise stuck by Isidore's side all day, growing bolder with each passing moment. She began to take advantage of his moments of inconvenience, teasing him at every opportunity.
For instance, she would spill water on him, or put an excessive amount of chili in his bowl, just to watch him eat a bite and see him tear up from the spice. It was the first time Eloise realized just how wicked she could be. She reflected on herself, yet couldn't stop. Seeing Isidore's stiff, yet helpless expression, she secretly felt a sense of satisfaction, as if all the grievances she had once endured were now being released.
She finally understood the pleasure in his dominance and desire for control—it was truly addictive.
Before bed, she once again squeezed into Isidore's room, her eyes narrowing into a mischievous arc. "Shall I help you with your bath?" she said.
