Always a Price to Pay (Poe-esque Writing - My Attempt)

Here is my best attempt to interpret the style of Poe. This is a story of Madness. All comments/questions/opinions are appreciated.






And for what you might ask? His money? No, I don’t need that. His possessions? No, I am quite content with my belongings. Then why would you kill him? Well, to be completely and utterly honest, it was his personality. His -constantly degrading- personality. Sure, I am but a lowly butler. But even with such a job as this, I am due a certain respect that comes with being a human being. He did not even find it in his old, old shallow heart to muster even a simple amount of respect towards me. He acted in such a manner of hostility towards me for so many years. It was to the point where I could take it no longer. And so, poor old Master Renolds was put to, well, we will just call it rest.
I had waited for months for the perfect chance, and the perfect plan. It came to me at night as I sat calmly reassuring myself that sanity was within me. I was completely sane.



It went like this. I would have to wait for the old man to leave his quarters. Seeing as how he lives in his bedroom, this would prove to be an issue. I had always done his bidding, so he slowly became more and more inert. It began to seem hopeless, and yet I waited. After a year and a half of waiting, it seemed my patience had begun to be rewarded. A family get together was just the thing necessary to get him off of his lazy hindquarters. He had been invited to attend a family picnic. He usually ignored such invitations seeing as he was not a kindly soul and certainly not one to show attention to others. But this time it was different. This time, everyone would be there and that included his ex-wife. She had divorced him 30 years previous and yet she remained the one thing in the whole world to which he showed the slightest amount of love.


Either way, I recognized this as my long awaited opportunity. He departed around noon and I immediately got to work. The first step was to retrieve a single bottle of 1902 Gregstone Barley Wine from the cellar. This was the only thing he would drink right before bed. He swore on his life that this was the only type of wine in the world that tasted so brilliantly it could excite you straight out of the depths of depression. I realized it was no use arguing with him on the matter as it was his way of coping with the loss of his wife. This proved to be quite the challenge as I scuffled past racks upon racks of wine. Finally, I stumbled upon that oh so familiar bright red label that spread itself upon its long, slick neck. It was colored a dark green so luminous it could only be the exact wine I sought. I picked it up ever so gently, gently so as not to damage it in any way. Then I scuffled off towards the door. I exited in an extremely subtle manner, as if someone was listening for me intently.


The second step would be to poison the wine. This would most likely pose the hardest challenge of my whole operation. Master Renolds was such a particular individual that he carefully inspected his wine body so as to make sure no one had tampered with it. He would slowly slide his old, cold hand across the bottle to check for any indents or cracks. Then he would place the cork but an inch from his black, aged pupil that rested in his right eye socket. He would look for any unusual holes or any deformities upon the cork that were seemingly unnatural. Should the bottle be found passable through this series of tests, he would slowly ease the cork out of the bottle neck’s firm grip, and then slowly pour exactly 2 ounces of the bright red liquid into a small wine glass.


I retrieved a syringe I had acquired from the medical surgeon’s office. I had previously filled it with a vile poison and made sure it spilled not upon the inner lining of my briefcase. I slowly wiggled it between the edge of the neck and the cork until the tip was a good inch below the cork. Then I slowly watched as the poison dripped, dripped its way into the wine. I did it slowly so it did not disturb the color or odor of the wine itself. After the deed was done I carefully pulled out the syringe then disposed of it in the basement furnace. I had succeeded; a positively menacing smile crept over my face.


That night, Master Renolds arrived at home and immediately had me escort him to his room. He went through his usual procedure of changing into his nighttime garments and ever so slowly climbing into his rather bulky bed. He pulled the thick covers over his frail, elderly legs. Then, he reached for the bottle of wine. Inside I was as giddy as a school girl but I kept my outer countenance stern and lifeless. I chuckled to myself silently as he found it passable. I left the room and went to sleep smiling as I knew the job had been successful and that my soon to be “former” master would be dead by morning.


I awoke early that next morning with just the slightest uneasiness in my stomach, but I attributed it to mere morning sickness. I walked into Mister Renolds room to find him lifeless. I then worked myself into a false tizzy and called the police. I told them I had found him dead in his bed this morning and that he had no pulse. I hoped that the falsehood of my concern had not manifested itself to them. Seeing as how I lack general emotions and had been trained all my life not to have any, coming up with a seemingly honest sound of concern was difficult. It seemed to have worked though as I heard the echo of distant sirens.


My stomach ache appeared to have evolved now into a constant sloshing of pain. What was this pain in the depths of my belly? The thought quickly slipped away as I heard a knock upon the door. I opened the door to find the police. They quickly pushed their way through the door then scurried up the stairs. There medical attention was provided to Mister Renolds, and they quickly, without secondary testing, said he had a heart attack. The expected feeling of relief did not come. My stomach just ached so terribly. I had never experienced such pain before. The police continued to look then found their way to the main foyer where I stood.


They began to ask me questions. They asked me several things including the question of whether he had had any thing to drink lately. I had thrown the bottle of wine and the glass into the furnace earlier as I thought ahead, so I simply told them he may have had some water or wine last night at the party he attended. All of a sudden my entire stomach spiked into a terrible pain like none other on this earth. I began answering the questions with gibberish and found myself doubled over in pain. They looked at me ever so menacingly. They knew. They had to. Their faces pierced into me like a thousand knives. I had to tell them. Surely, they were the ones causing this pain. Surely they would continue until I died if I didn’t tell them.


I shouted out in agony and cursed like the devil himself. I told them everything all about the waiting, about the plans, about every last detail. Then I proceeded to tell them how cunning I was in making sure each step was perfected. I spilled out everything to them. Still, the stares cut into me. They grabbed my arms and escorted me away. The whole way back I continued to talk of my cunningness and reassured myself once more that I was completely sane. I must have breathed in a small remnant of the poison. Surely this was where the pain was coming from. Of course, this was all worth it.


You see, in doing all this, I lost my job, credibility, and rights. I now reside under never-ceasing attention in this facility. But the one thing that is not here is his terrible attitude. His constant rudeness and hostility are not here. They are vanquished and are never to haunt me. He can’t reach me and he can’t do anything to me at all. I am forever free of him and can live the rest of my life in peace knowing he paid the ultimate price, not I.