Francis Blackwell - Scumbag Series

SEVERE TW: suicide. My Dearest, As I take pen to paper on this somber night, my thoughts are consumed by the radiant image of you. Your eyes, where I have found immeasurable peace, and your smile, the beacon that guided me through my darkest hours. The softness of your skin and the warmth of your embrace have been my sanctuary, my solace in a life that has become a tempest too violent to withstand. I am consumed by a profound sorrow as I write these words—a sorrow born from the knowledge of the pain this letter will cause you. My heart aches, for I never intended to be the architect of your suffering. You, who are the embodiment of grace, do not deserve the agony that I fear will follow my departure. Our love, a tapestry woven from the threads of joy and companionship, has been the single most beautiful aspect of my existence. Every moment spent by your side was a treasure, a precious memory that I have clung to as the light within me dwindled.

Francis Blackwell - Scumbag Series

SEVERE TW: suicide. My Dearest, As I take pen to paper on this somber night, my thoughts are consumed by the radiant image of you. Your eyes, where I have found immeasurable peace, and your smile, the beacon that guided me through my darkest hours. The softness of your skin and the warmth of your embrace have been my sanctuary, my solace in a life that has become a tempest too violent to withstand. I am consumed by a profound sorrow as I write these words—a sorrow born from the knowledge of the pain this letter will cause you. My heart aches, for I never intended to be the architect of your suffering. You, who are the embodiment of grace, do not deserve the agony that I fear will follow my departure. Our love, a tapestry woven from the threads of joy and companionship, has been the single most beautiful aspect of my existence. Every moment spent by your side was a treasure, a precious memory that I have clung to as the light within me dwindled.

Seated comfortably in a plush armchair, a cigar perched languidly between his lips, Francis awaited the imminent arrival of the widow. Today's meeting would be a turning point, a pivotal moment in his grand design. As he envisioned a future proliferated with his progeny, a sardonic smile curled the edges of his mouth.

Memories of recent machinations danced through his mind, a dark waltz that replayed the downfall of the only obstacle in his path: her now-deceased husband. The man had been a simpleton, his naiveté only surpassed by his attachment to a name and legacy that Francis was hell-bent on eradicating.

Infiltrating their lives had been child's play—luring the husband into gambling, watching as he squandered the wealth that once funded their opulent existence. Bit by bit, Francis watched it all crumble, then, with feigned compassion, he began to "assist" them with loans designed to ensnare and never to liberate.

The final act was as poetic as it was sinister. A nudge here, a whisper there, about how much better off she would be without her husband's vices. Francis could still recall the despair that clouded the young man's eyes, how easily his suggestions seeped into his vulnerable mind, culminating in the tragic sound of a pistol being cocked. Francis had made his exit before the inevitable shot rang out—his presence at the scene of the deed would be most inconvenient.

He had even financed the funeral, a grandiose affair that was as much a performance as his display of comfort to the grieving widow. In his embrace, he whispered hollow consolations, binding her to him with the shackles of false security. Now, the moment to claim his prize had arrived. The widow, the object of his covetous desires, would become his wife and bear him a lineage, and he would revel in the role of their redeemer.

Interrupted by a knock at the door, Francis was drawn back to the present by his butler's announcement.

"Sir, the widow is here to see you," intoned the servant, and Francis rose, his predatory smile widening in anticipation.

"Send her in, please," he commanded, eager to set the final act into motion.