A Duke's Nature (My Last Duchess)

He was merely a young boy of 12, yet he had already grown cold and callous in his nature. He was sitting in a dreary dark room, contemplating the events of the past month. He was rather small for his age and his complexion was pale from being stuck inside because of his many ailments; something his father had never learnt to accept.

“An heir of a Duke is to be strong and dignified. You, boy, are a disgrace to the family name!” He had heard a variant of that exclamation as far back as he could remember, and it hurt even more for being the truth.

He did not command respect and fear as his father did when he entered a room, and he never would. It did not matter that his mother kept promising that he would become the perfect duke, it was not her approval that he wanted, she was after all only a woman, what did she know? No, it was his father, the duke, that mattered, and he would do anything to become the heir that his father wanted. Just how much that desire would require of him he had not known until a week ago.

It had been an unusually dark night, no moon nor stars to shine on the manor. All the inhabitants had been asleep for hours and the house was quiet. Suddenly a scream had rung through the corridors and the boy had started awake. He had sat completely still in his bed listening for sounds when he heard yelling and another scream. He already knew what was going on, they were fighting again.

It had happened more frequently in the past few months, ever since the painting of his mother had been commissioned. He had heard them argue over the painting, and his father was not happy about the long hours his mother was having to spend with the painter.

Apart from the commotion in the rooms down the hall the house was still quiet. The servants were already accustomed to the fights and knew better than to try to intervene; or they would feel the wrath of the master.

However, something had been different that night. The sounds had suddenly seized and he had heard a door open. Aggressive footsteps came down the hall towards his rooms and he had recognized them as his fathers. The door was thrust open and his father had been over him in a second, pulling him from the covers and steering him down the hall by an inflexible grip on his arm.

What he saw when he was pushed into the room did not exactly shock him, he had after all heard the screams and seen his mother after previous fights. What had shocked him, though, was the look in his father’s eyes. They were entirely devoid of any love, care or pity, but instead they radiated hatred and evil to such an extent that the boy almost felt his skin burn, when his father turned these cruel eyes on him.

“No, please let him go! Not him, he’s just a boy!” his mother had pleaded with a broken voice. She had tried to raise herself from the floor, but her legs wouldn’t support her and she had fallen down on her knees. Her dress had been torn and her arms bruised. Her usually beautiful face had been covered in blood that came from a wound on her forehead and her broken nose.

“Please, I’ll do anything you want just let him go!” She had cried, tears mixing with the blood on her cheeks.

“See the whore of a mother you have!” the duke had hissed, every syllable full of contempt.

“Pathetic, disgusting Jezebel! She has tainted the family name! It’s time for you to show whether you are a man or a weakling! Clear the family name or you are no longer part of it!” The duke had let go of his arm when they entered the room and now he had crossed the floor, over to the hearth. He had grabbed a fire poker next to the fireplace and had turned towards his pale, trembling son.

“Kill her or I disown you!” His father had looked more dangerous than ever.

He had been too confused and scared to respond. Paralyzed with fear he hadn’t immediately taken the poker that his father had held out to him.

“You coward! I will not have a coward for a son! Kill her now!” He had stepped closer and forced the poker into his hands. “Kill the whore or be disowned! Are you a duke or not?!”

He had felt the old desire for approval surge through his veins, and heard the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears as his pulse had quickened. His father had charged at him, grabbing him and pushing him towards his mother, “look at her! She’s a pathetic, lying whore! A smudge on the family’s honor, she has to be eradicated! Strike her down!”

He had hardly known what he was doing. “No, please!” his mother had yelled, but it had been too late. He had stricken her with the poker over and over again as madness had taken over. His father, the duke, was egging him on all the while, “Kill her! Kill the whore!”

He hardly knew what had happened afterwards, it was all a blur. He had become very ill and lay in bed for a week with a high fever. It was not until now that he had been allowed out of bed and he had found his way to the dark room where the portrait of his mother hung. He felt nothing when he looked at it, no remorse, no pain, nothing. He had become as cold and hard as his father. He knew now that his mother had been right, he would be the perfect duke.