Kera
I love weekends.
Catching up on my beauty sleep to make my already flawless self even more radiant; Plotting the downfall of all those who've wronged me during the week; Rejuvenating and recharging my energy so that I can exert my full effort into exacting my plans...
There's just one small thing that I always dread. Well, a big thing. A big six-foot-one burden that I call brother. Stepbrother.
How is one such a bothersome, uncultivated, gauche, A-class bastard? I mean, I'm an understanding person, and I get that he has his pride as I have mine, so I don't expect him to fall at my feet instantly when I say the word, but I at least expect him to begrudgingly bow down. Until now, after being siblings for nearly two years, he still hasn't bowed down to me! Not even once!
Jerk-ling must be some kind of new breed with a chromosomal mutation that makes them lack the gene for basic matriarchal respect. I guess even Perfects can have some sort of anomaly in their DNA. Yes, that must be it! That makes a lot of sense, and would explain a lot. This theory would account for the aberrant behavior of that hybrid playing Perfect (What's her name again? Jenny? Sally? I don't care to remember) as well as that witch-tester from two years ago.
I'm not one to hold grudges, but I never forgive or forget when one crosses me, ever. I always make sure to get my revenge. Although, perhaps, in these cases, I should grant a gracious exemption? Since these poor souls seem to have some deformity, and I'm always for helping the less fortunate.
Wow, I just debunked the formula to a regressive behavioral pattern in unique individuals. It's the Rosamund in me. I'm a natural-born genius. It's in my blood. I'm honestly ready to take over the company right now, at eighteen years old. If only my mother was gone... Not that I want her to die or anything, I'm a filial daughter, but if she were to get into some sort of sudden terrible accident putting her into a coma for about twenty years until I've managed to eclipse all the company assets, that would be quite convenient.
From the window in my room, an entire sheet glass stretching from one wall to the other, I spy down four floors to the front porch of the mansion where a limousine has stopped.
Sterling throws the limo door open and storms out with his bag slung over his shoulder, ignoring the numerous maids and butlers who attempt to offer to take his bag, as usual.
Why does he always do that? What's the point in being rich and hiring servants when you don't even utilize the benefits? He refuses their service all the time and just does things on his own. I, on the other hand, have forgotten what it's like to do things on my own. Scratch that, I didn't forget — I never learnt. I take much pride in the fact. I was born with a diamond spoon in my mouth and I've never had to tarnish my milky white, soft, pristine hands by doing any form of dirty work in the entirety of my blessed existence.
I march towards the elevator, and press the button. The elevator doors slam shut.
They open again on the first floor, just as the front door bursts open, revealing my least favorite stepbrother with his usual irked look on his face.
I strut forward and stand in front of him with my arms folded across my chest.
"Ugh, you're here," I bite with a tone of distaste.
"If my presence in this house is an 'ugh' for you, for me it feels like writhing in pain on the shined marble floor," he says languidly, walking right past me into the main foyer. I walk after him.
"Trust me, I'm pretty sure I hate you being here more than you do."
"It's not a competition, Rosamund." He continues walking without even stopping to turn around when he speaks to me. How rude. Must be his chromosomal mutation exhibiting its effect.
"Everything in life's a competition. And I always win."
"That's because you always rig the competition. Oh, wait, my bad — You pay someone else to rig it for you."
"Is there anything wrong with that?" I ask candidly as I follow him up the stairs. He simply sneers at my question, which gets on my nerves.
"You and that hybrid girl seem to be pretty close recently," I say loudly and poignantly.
That finally gets him to halt his step, and he turns to look at me with narrowed eyes.
I continue, "did you suddenly discover an interest for philanthropy work or something? I'm sure I can get my mother to arrange for you to help out with some of her present beneficiaries, rather than wasting your time on that charity case."
"That girl has a name. And she's no different from you and me, and everyone else," his voice is completely leveled, but his eyes are flashing.
"Please, don't insult me in that derogative manner. I can't be dragged down to the level of some lowlife wannabe who pretends to be one of us when she's already lived most of her life being corrupted by Imperfect influence." My face contorts in antipathy just thinking about it. "So what if she's coded as a Perfect? That doesn't make her pure like us. The nature versus nurture debate can go on forever, but I personally find that upbringing plays a much more significant role in making up an individual. What's in your DNA is one factor, of course, but nurture can make all the difference between an unrefined philistine and a culturally-advanced higher-order erudite."
I am still talking about hybrid girl... right? Yes, yes, of course I am. Who else would I be referring to? I lick my lips and try to keep my expression neutral despite my rapidly beating heart.
"I personally don't care." He continues up the staircase. I huff and follow suit.
"Well even if I can't get through to you, I still see it as my duty to convey this scholarly insight across to that hybrid girl, who seems pretty ignorant of the way things run in our world."
"Stay away from her."
"Why should I?"
He doesn't respond.
I cross my arms over my chest and jut my chin out in protest, as we walk down the narrow hall. "And what if I don't?"
He stops, and doesn't turn his body, but looks at me over his shoulder with a dark look in his light eyes, warning lowly, "I won't let you get away with it."
My eyes narrow skeptically. "Why would you care? Do you... like her or something?"
He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, and walks forward again in silence.
"You do. You do like that hybrid!" A feeling likened to disgust rises in my chest. How can someone born of such distinguished and genuine lineage fall for some abandoned and reclaimed goods like her? I'm honestly deeply offended and appalled by the fact that Sterling rejected me — an upper-crust, well-bred, pure, intelligent, gorgeous, cultured, altruistic heir loved by the public — for some random orphan girl. She's not even that pretty. Well, to be fair, who can be seen as even remotely beautiful when they're standing besides a goddess like myself in comparison? It's not a fair competition.
"You know, Sis, you claim to hate my presence in this house, but you've just climbed up two levels and followed me all the way to my door."
His sudden remark takes me aback, as I realize that we've reached his bedroom door, the only one right at the end of the hall on this floor. My mouth opens to fire a comeback, but I can't seem to find one.
"I know you can't bear not seeing me all week, but right now I'm gonna take a nap. I'll be at the investors' event tonight, not like I have choice, so you'll see me then. You can look forward to it." With that, he rips the door open and slams it shut in my face. I blink a few times in astonishment, and scoff in disbelief.
"That smooth son of a bitch."
***
I finish up my conversation with a lovely laugh and small bow of my head, before excusing myself.
Another group of investors swayed by my captivating charms. I swear, these Rosamund charms really are impossible for men to resist, even old balding men who've already been married at least twice. The only guy immune to my charms is that infuriating Crawford bastard. At least now that he's my stepbrother I can allude that to the reason.
I spy a passing waiter and swipe a champagne glass off his tray, sipping the bubbly drink prettily. I usually need about three glasses to get through these dull events. This one is my second.
A man who looks like he's approximately in his fifties judging from his graying hair walks toward me, and I take a deep breath to brace myself for another round of flattering and meaningless idle talk about economy and business, slapping a sweet smile on my face.
"Kera," the man calls me fondly, "it's been a long time."
"I'm sorry, I've been to way too many of these events that I may have forgotten, have we met before? Perhaps at the last Rosamund Tech ball?" I speak politely.
"No, no. You definitely wouldn't remember me, even though my face was probably the first one you've ever seen." He chuckles lightly. "The first and last time I saw you was the day you were born. I'm Dr Park. I'm the doctor that delivered you."
"Ah, I see! Nice to see you again, Dr Park. But what are you doing at an investors' event? Have you had a career change?"
"Oh, I'm not an investor, but my partner is. He was very impressed by you. He told me that you're a very confident, well-spoken young lady." I nod my head attentively. "Common for a type O personality."
"You must be mistaken, Dr Park. I'm a type B blood group."
"No, I remember specifically that you're a type O-negative, since those are quite rare."
My eyebrows furrow together in confusion.
Out of nowhere, my mother, who has been too busy to speak a word to me the entire night, comes up to us in a rush and turns to the doctor. "Dr Park! I didn't see you on the guest list. It's been a while, we have a lot to catch up on." She guides him by the arm and pulls him away from me, leaving me standing alone gripping tightly onto the glass in my hand.
I gulp down the last half of the champagne and place the empty glass on a nearby table. Then I start to walk, out of the room and out of the building.
I walk calmly and steadily, nodding at passing guests with a composed smile, but my mind is already running a marathon and my heart is beating a hundred times per second. My brain is on overdrive, as all the gears rotate in wild circles trying to grasp onto an explanation, instead finding more and more gaps for me to slip into.
All my health records since I remember state that I'm a type B blood group. At health checkups I've always been told that I'm a type B.
Every time my mother brings me for a medical examination, she takes my blood sample ahead of time since she trusts her own blood-taking skills more than those amateur nurses who may make a mistake and give me a scar across my flawless skin. My mother never makes mistakes. Those silver vials of clean blood are always carefully packaged and handed straight to the doctors for screening, without the need of any middle-men who may botch the process.
My mother is a type A, so she could potentially carry the allele for an O blood group. But my father is a type AB, so it's theoretically impossible for him to produce a child with type O. It's scientifically implausible for me to have a type O blood group, much less a type O-negative. Well, in the past few years, I have seen more than a few scientifically implausible things...
Are my eyes not working right? W-Why am I seeing... p-pink spots? My hands ball up into tight fists and my teeth grind together as I will the spots away from my vision, eyes darting back and forth. My uneven breathing becomes even worse and more sporadic, as I struggle for air, feeling like I'm being choked by my blue satin dress.
I burst out of the front doors of the building, relishing the cool blast of fresh air to my face. I inhale deeply, attempting to slow my rapid heartbeat and bring my breathing back to normal again.
Eventually I begin to calm myself down, and I decide to take a stroll through the garden entryway to clear my head.
Approaching the entrance of the compound, I see the front boom-gate where the security post is stationed. As I walk closer, I notice a familiar-looking female figure at the security post. It's hybrid girl. What the hell is someone like her doing at a place like this?
She's talking to one of the security guards on duty, appearing to be quite close to him, and discretely passes him something from her bag. It's... pills.
I knew she was trouble, and low-class trash, but I didn't actually expect this. Hybrid girl deals drugs? And so blatantly in public, right in front of a building filled with high profile VIPs who wouldn't tolerate this kind of vulgar Invalid-like behavior at all. I didn't expect this from her, but honestly, I'm not that surprised either. And she can still call herself a Perfect? What a joke.
I sneer, and raise my eyebrows in amusement. She's lucky that I'm the one that discovered her, and out of the kindness of my heart for my fellow classmate, I'll show mercy on her by not immediately informing the higher authorities to deal with her. I'll take this matter into my own hands. Although, just because I'm being compassionate and merciful, doesn't mean I can't have fun with this.
And trust me, I will.