The Oldest of Stories

There is an innate desire in every human being to watch the world burn.

From the moment we escape the womb, we are shrieking; it is ingrained in our genes to create chaos, to attract attention, to fend first and foremost for ourselves. In our most basic level, we are monsters. Children, what a horror to behold! They have not been conditioned yet, so they are free to give in to their instincts without question. They crush sandcastles, they wrestle with siblings and friends, they hurt others and don't understand why they are supposed to feel bad.

Complacency is a learned skill, and it runs rampant. A calculated move by some government long past, who realized power was more easily held when destruction was something that was frowned upon. "Peace" was coined. The downfall began.

The problem with complacency is that is makes things so dreadfully boring.

Beth has told me that this is a slightly inappropriate way to begin a story, so I will start smaller. With the smallest thing in this whole story: myself.

Penelope Carleton. A name for a highborn person, you would think. You would not be incorrect, but incomplete. Beth is the elite one, the favorite child, the heir to whatever sums Father has acquired. Ironically, she is the bastard child, but you wouldn't believe it to see us. She understands politics, social events. I have not bothered to make them understandable.

Besides, Mother is dead, so it's not like her titles grant me any standing anymore.

I grew up rich until it became clear that I would not bend to any rules set upon me, at which point I was sent to school. It was a close to being disowned as Father could get, risking Beth's disfavor if he went any further. Then, I grew up among delinquents and addicts, skipping class to figure out if I could see the city from the roof of the main hall.

Once a year, I returned home for Christmas. When I became of age, I stopped returning.

I have not spoken to Father since an arranged meeting by Beth: a trick I will not fall for again. Beth writes me weekly. Sometimes the only words I can hear in her voice are "Dear Penny". Other times she monologues inside my mind. I have never been one for excess talking, so she is the one who must be relied upon to fill the silence.

I moved to the city, and that is where the story begins.

Beth thinks it rather superior of me to refer to my own life as a story, but I continuously state that my life story has rather proven my superiority to the average person. And besides, where is the fun in life if not in romanticizing it? Beth will never understand the appeal of fantasy, not while she is herself.

I moved to the city, and I went out for drinks, and I met a dead man.

The general understanding is that the dead do not continue breathing, much less drink several pints in a night, but this particular dead man was rather set on disproving the general understanding of things. This is a sentiment I respect, which is how I found myself sitting next to an old classmate. Henry had been two years above me, but our paths had crossed often. He was a reliable supplier of hard drugs, and I found people more entertaining when they were high. He had met the expected fate -- overdose -- months before his graduation. I remember some excessive sort of school funeral, like administration hadn't been schemeing to get rid of him for nearly a decade.

Henry was a good drinks partner. It was unclear if he recognized me from whatever former life he'd had, but he shared his life story easily enough. A traveller taking odd jobs after family life fell through following his schooling. He told me his year of graduation. He did not speak about his death. I did not tell him that I'd seen his dead body in a coffin. It wasn't the sort of conversation you had over drinks.

By the end of the night, I finally had found what my life had lacked for so long: excitement.

That night, I wrote a letter to Beth telling her I was going out of town, and then I went to the address Henry had given me and watched him attempt to skip town unnoticed.

I am a Carleton, after all. We have a knack for noticing.

"Penny," he said, and sobriety was in his voice, though it hadn't yet reached his eyes.

"Henry," I said. "That's an awful large bag you've got with you. Be a shame for you to leave so soon after connecting with an old friend."

"It would be more of a shame for us to stay connected," Henry said. He stumbled over his own feet, trying to hurry away from me.

I faked shock, more for my own enjoyment than for his benefit. "Henry, darling, I thought you had no eyes for the fairer sex, but there's no need to be rude about it."

"The fairer sex being your department, eh, Penny?"

I did not reply, but I smiled, and that was reply enough for anyone in their right mind. Henry, not being in such, repeated his line as though I had not heard. See? Entertainment. I needed to go out for drinks more often.

"How would you like company on your little journey?" I asked cheerfully, watching as he narrowly avoiding dropping his bag onto his feet. They -- the feet -- were still moving too slow for his liking.

"If you come with me, people will surely get hurt," he said worriedly.

"Excellent!" I said.

I moved forward to link my arm through his, since he looked like he needed the support. Then there was the unmistakeable sound of a gunshot, and I found myself falling from consciousness.

It is only human nature to seek answers for an inexplicable event, which is what I would proceed to do once I awoke in my bed, a gunshot wound in my arm neatly bandaged. My involvment after procuring the answers I desired is the part that the world finds immoral, as that was the part in which people were harmed by my part in the story. But we are selfish beasts, and it is always in my self-interest to have something entertaining to live for. Or to die for. I have many vices, but I am not picky.

Beth does not know the true extent of the harm I have caused, because she does not wish to know. It is not difficult to notice, especially for someone with Father's blood. But there is another shared Carleton trait that Beth chose employ instead: stubborness.

She still insists that I am a good person, and I do not have the heart to convince her otherwise. Beth believes, and I create chaos. It is as natural to us as anything else in this strange world. The oldest of stories have both believers and chaos-bringers, though they are called differently. To most, I would be called nothing but a villain.

And who was I to argue with that?