Alan Henderson hated his grandfather. But his grandfather, Sir Reginald van der Helsing, wasn’t the only one he had come to hate. He fired a pebble at a passing bird but missed. An inaudible profanity quietly rumbled beneath his breath. A larger stone was chosen, and he reloaded his slingshot. His eyes followed his next prey. Aim readied, he waited patiently.
The turret in which he stood, an architectural feature of the family estate home, provided a lofty vantage point and unhindered solace to exercise his twisted, little ways. “Got you!” He watched the bird plunge, its carcass smashing onto the appointed location: the middle of the step to the front door. This was his third bullseye.
He sat and retrieved his diary and pen from his backpack. He opened it and recorded the date, drew a smiley face beside it, and wrote a few words. Then, he inserted the pen in the spine of the diary and secured it along with the slingshot in his knapsack. Litheness in step and movement, he descended the stairs to the grand hall, located at the side of the house, exited through the French doors, and crossed the patio and manicured lawns toward the large maple tree that cradled his treehouse.
The rope ladder wavered precariously under his ascending steps. A platform upon which the treehouse had been built provided enough room for him to sit cross-legged. Withdrawing an apple from his backpack, he buffed it and took a deep bite. His line of sight to the front door was unobstructed. A light breeze rifled through his thin blonde hair while he waited.
When his grandfather’s chauffeur-driven limousine came into sight, he scuttered behind the treehouse wall and peeked through the open space which acted like a window. He retrieved his camera from the knapsack and positioned it on the window ledge to steady his shot. Then, holding his breath, he watched his grandfather exit the vehicle. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!
Later, Alan giggled with delight while he processed the film in the ensuite (a.k.a darkroom), off his bedroom. Each processed photo, appointed to one of three distinct groupings, was meticulously hung along a clothesline which ran the full length of the bathroom. A grouping identified a person whom he deemed a churlish occupant of the mansion. On the double-sink counter were three albums arranged largest to smallest, left to right. The first was labelled MAS ODIADO; the second, ODIADO; the third, MENOS ODIADO.
The processing finally complete, he scrutinized each group. Several minutes passed. He sighed deeply. With a nod, his mind was made up. He unclipped one photo from each group and placed the three of them inside the cover of his diary. The remainder were appropriated to their correct album. Turning on the lights, he climbed onto a stool and removed one of the large ceiling tiles. Carefully, he located the albums into the open space before closing it off again. Clothesline and chemicals placed in a nondescript box in the cupboard under the sink, he picked up his diary, turned off the lights, and exited to the bedroom.
He unlatched the window overlooking his desk and peered out aimlessly for several seconds before he sat down. Today is his twelfth birthday. He knows soon he will be called for dinner. And there is still much to do. He removed the pen from the diary’s spine and spread the diary open to two blank pages. Glue stick in hand, he pasted a photo on one side. On the opposite page, pen raised, he hesitated. His thoughts had to be precise and concise. When the words arrived, they arrived as a tumultuous cascade. And began: He who does not love abides with death.