“How could things go so awry in just a short span of time? Literal misfortune multiplied exponentially just happened to take a wham at me, in the fucking jugular. Out of all the scenarios that could’ve played out, this didn’t even come to mind. How the fuck was I supposed to know that my father was planning to expunge his own progeny?”

“He always seems so… composed, unnaturally so. This composure seems to manifest in a somewhat dazed state, as contradictory as that sounds. Always engrossed in his ramblings… I surmise that he was probably mumbling about how he was going to take my life. And all this just for old Grandpère Mort’s inheritance, that’s just fucking cliché.”

“Oh, Tristan, you’re going to die tonight if that’s the last thing I’ll do” The words rang on in Tristan’s head. All this time, his father was a brooding psychopath who envied his own son because instead of Grandpère Mort handing over his assets and loads of coffers into his avaricious son’s pockets, he decided to hand them over to the generation after him.

“Lucere, where should we hide the body?” Tristan deadpanned.

“Good thing he burnt the hog to a crisp.”

3 hours earlier

They left the café, and Tristan motioned for the both of them to head to his house, well, specifically, it was a rather quaint yet sizeable Greek revival estate that took 30 minutes to reach from that café on foot.

Tristan’s family was a very affluent one in European society.

Descendants of French vineyard owners dating from the 1800s, their heirs found their fortune in wine-making. However, they were quite the modest bunch, always giving back to the community. They believed they ought to do so, as premier members of the bourgeoisie.

However, as time went on, some portions of the extended members and associates, mostly related, were enraptured in a battle of wits and greed. Mort Lavigne, during some time in the 20th century, broke away from the drama, which had devolved further and further into divisive stances between keeping their wines available for all or gatekeeping their products for people like them.

Fed up with the familial politics, he liquidated his assets, which amounted enough for him to move away and estrange himself from the family entirely. He even changed his surname to Peters.

He had come to abhor the taste of champagne.

And seeing as how greed consumed his family, he didn’t want to instigate his future children possessing inflated egos and butting heads due to their wealth. Thereby, he sought to instill the former values of modesty and altruism that his forbearers had supplemented.

Unfortunately for him, it seemed like the vice of greed came through in his only child, Birne Peters. He had married; however, Mrs Clara Peters succumbed to Leukemia when little Birne was only 2.

He was always rather gloomy and vexed-looking, even as an infant.

« Cet enfant apparaît comme la mort, mon dieu! » His mother would 

Lament. Due to his disposition, he was shunned by many of his peers during his youth in France, which only stirred his low sense of self.

Mort Peters grew into a slump, depression hounded him, and all the mental afflictions led to him locking himself away in his study for days on end.

This led to him developing a reputation for being a shut-in, he was aware he was neglecting his own child to both of their detriments, but he couldn’t pull himself out of it. And so, their lives went on in such a pitiful manner.

Birne was quite the opportunistic child, always striving to achieve his wants, no matter how inane, through any means, no matter how unorthodox, necessary. He would bump into a friend and make them drop their ice cream… and he’d eat it off the ground. He didn’t really care if people thought him an eccentric, nutty wackjob with half of a lightbulb for a brain, he felt he could be clever if need be.

When he grew into his adolescence, he researched on his own accord his family background, out of innocuous curiosity, and became privy to his father’s former life of wealth (he was still quite wealthy, mind you). His eyes were set alight with a blinding hunger for such wealth, and he strived to kowtow to his father to get in his good graces.

“Father, I’ve set you up with an appointment at the therapist’s office this weekend, I really urge you to go, and maybe it’d do some good for you.” An 18 year old Birne beckoned, out of a place of contrived care… or maybe genuine care.

And by some miracle, Mort Peters actually considered going to that appointment and seeking some viable professional help.

“So, Mr. Peters, anything to unload?” The therapist’s dulcet tones melted his apprehensions.

And great hot tamales, it actually helped. He grew out of his depression, little by little, with support from his dear ol’ son, and he started becoming more affable to social gatherings. He had even made quite a couple of friends at a country club he started frequenting.

When Tristan Peters came into the world, a familiar set of misfortunes, his wife dying from childbirth, occurred. Undeterred by her passing, he sought to raise Tristan with care and love and attention.

That’s what he thought, at least. However, it appeared mental illness ran in the family. He mourned his dead wife day in and day out, and the bereavement manifested in… radical forms.

He developed a particularly nasty complex of blaming his child for his wife’s death. At first, he realized this notion was utterly unfounded and ludicrous, but as time went on, his sanity declined.

Unlike his father Mort, he kept his struggles concealed, and not wanting to possibly snap at his child due to his volatility, he generally kept to himself.

Life went on like that, and somehow, Birne never thought to go to therapy.

This narrator surmises it must’ve been misfiring synapses or something.

It wasn’t until Mort Peters was on his deathbed that something within Birne just… fizzled out into oblivion, leaving all his inhibitions unrestricted, unfettered, and unrestrained.

As Birne and Tristan sat at the lawyer’s office, hearing the will left by Grandpère Mort being dictated to them, Birne was mortified. All assets were left to Tristan.

Rage and acrimony aggregated and coalesced within Birne’s psyche, his feelings of entitlement wrapping him into a blanket of avarice. He had had enough. He should’ve gone to therapy, this bumbling idiot.

His taciturn nature concealed his wanton, violent scorn just simmering underneath his stoic exterior.

He was going to murder his own flesh and blood.