**May 5, 2025*

*4:30 AM

In the early Scottish morning, Edward was already out of bed, his gaunt frame towering over everything in his sparsely furnished bedroom. It was still early—you were, as usual, still asleep, and even the mute maid hadn't started her shift yet—but Edward was already on his feet, having slept exactly four hours, as always. Edward quickly took a morning shower, brushed his crooked but snow-white teeth, and dried off. Then, walking into the large, modern kitchen done in black-and-gray tones—its expensive appliances starkly contrasting with the Spartan austerity of his private quarters—he made himself breakfast. He whipped up an omelet, fried some bacon, and washed it all down with orange juice mixed with a splash of vodka. He chased it all with an antidepressant pill and a good cigarette. Once finished, he dumped the dishes in the sink and, after thoroughly washing his hands, returned to his room. In his private sanctuary, he began ironing his suit. For a moment, he met his own gaze in the mirror—his face exhausted, his body withered, his eyes still red. Not a single emotion flickered across his face as he slowly lowered his head and continued ironing his clothes. Of course, the maid could have done this, but as he often told himself: "A real man should be capable of doing everything for himself."

*5:00 AM

After putting on his freshly steamed pants, shirt, vest, and even a tie, he returned to the kitchen and brewed himself a strong tea concentrate. The tea was impossibly black and bitter to the point of tears—more like prison-grade chifir than actual tea. But he liked it that way. At that moment, his gaze fell on the unwashed dishes in the sink, left over from his recent breakfast. Edward didn't wash them because the drain was clogged. Could he have fixed it himself? Of course. But why bother? That was beneath his status. Besides, a plumber was scheduled to arrive at 5:00 PM. As Edward often reminded himself: "A real man should be capable of doing everything for himself—but isn't obligated to actually do it."

Grabbing a mug full of the dark liquid, Edward stepped onto the porch of his large private house and scanned his surroundings with a predatory gaze. Finding nothing that could ruin his day, he exhaled in near satisfaction and took a sip of the bitter brew. Good... And then, right at that moment, he heard it—that disgusting, saccharine, nauseating female voice. Crowley turned his head toward the sound and saw her: Miss Petty.

"Mr. Crowley! Up before everyone else again, are we?" — Miss Petty chirped. Miss Petty was a single woman of 38, short but heavy-set. To Edward Crowley, Miss Petty was a walking paradox—her bulk dominated his field of vision, yet she always seemed to appear out of nowhere. Her weight seemed on the verge of tipping into the ton range, yet she somehow still managed to move with surprising energy on what could only be described as pig trotters fit to feed an entire regiment. Miss Petty was someone Edward wanted to kill as badly as his brain needed oxygen—and yet he endured, though he didn't know why, or for how much longer. Edward silently nodded and turned away, taking another sip of his sludge, making it clear he wasn't in the mood for conversation. But when had that ever stopped this woman? Never. So she continued—"How's your daughter doing? She's such a grown young lady now, isn't she?" — Petty said, followed by a Santa Claus-like "Ho-ho-ho." Edward could only wonder how she didn't choke on her own breath.

"Thank you for your prayers. You look absolutely stunning yourself," — Edward replied with feigned friendliness. You'd look even better if your useless head was separated from your body!! YOU FAT SOW!! — a voice screamed in his mind, and he sighed. At that moment, it appeared—the cosmic mistake, nature's cruel joke, the damn yapping, pissing little mutt of Miss Petty. The Pekingese snorted furiously before lifting its leg and urinating on Edgar's pristine white fence—the one separating his property from Petty's. Edward's eyes dilated manically, and he downed the rest of his bitter brew in one gulp. As Miss Petty cooed at the dog, acting as if its daily desecration of his fence was some kind of celebration—as if the stupid animal hadn't done this every single day for the past 11 years. Eleven years, my God... Eleven years Edward had tolerated this shit (in every sense of the word), and yet he still couldn't decide which was dumber—the Pekingese's face or its owner's. How happy I'd be if I could dissect that useless mutt right in front of you!! I'D LAUGH LIKE A HORSE IN YOUR FACE AS YOU WATCHED THIS CREATURE'S AGONY!!

Edward shook his head. Now wasn't the time for such thoughts. Today was a special day... A special day for his daughter, for you. So Edward poured himself another cup of his chifir and paced the dining room, focusing on what truly mattered. What felt like an eternity later, Edgar glanced at the gold watch adorning his right wrist—it was almost exactly 6:00 AM. I think it's time...

Edward washed his hands again, laid a fresh tablecloth, retrieved a heavy cake from the fridge, and placed it on the table. He stuck a special candle shaped like the number "1" into the creamy frosting, followed by another shaped like an "8"—together forming "18." Eighteen years... To think, my daughter is already 18. Eighteen years of relentless struggle—against myself, against her "condition," against the urge to wring her neck. And yet, it feels like just yesterday I was carrying her in my arms... Though, in truth, I still have to.

He sighed deeply, then turned at the sound of footsteps. There stood their maid, a girl slightly older than you but quite capable. "Ninelle! You overslept! Get to work, you have 40 minutes," — Edward rattled off in a commanding tone, sharply gesturing toward the kitchen. Ninelle gave him a meek bow and wordlessly headed to the kitchen—not that she could speak, being mute.

While Ninelle began cooking, Edward silently ascended to the second floor and moved toward the room at the far end of the house. He gripped the doorknob, carefully unlocked the door, and peered inside. The room was a riot of bright colors, toys scattered in organized chaos. Some might find it odd that an 18-year-old girl still played with toys, but Edward never objected. Never. He crept forward with feline grace, approaching the bed where you slept peacefully. Edward loomed over his daughter for a long moment, simply staring at her closed eyes. So grown, yet so innocent and vulnerable... And she looks so much like her... How easy it would be to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until—until!..

Edward blinked slowly, the right corner of his lip twitching—the only outward sign that his calm demeanor didn't match the storm inside. But who knew that besides him? Right. No one... And it had to stay that way. Always. So instead of acting on any of the dark impulses swirling in his fevered mind, Edward reached out with almost reverent care and gently shook your shoulder. When your eyes flew open abruptly, Edward smiled as tenderly as he could—as tenderly as necessary, as tenderly as he knew how. "Good morning, sweetheart. Time to wake up—we have a lot to do today," — he murmured in a soft, hissing whisper, stepping back to let you rise.

For the next half-hour, Edward helped you wash up and dress in your usual dark blue knee-length dress with long sleeves, white cuffs, and a high collar. Simple black shoes and black leggings completed the outfit. After this daily routine—unchanged for 18 years—Edward led you downstairs and seated you at the dining table, where Ninelle had already laid out breakfast. Edward quickly pulled out his Zippo, lit the two number-shaped candles, and nudged the cake slightly toward you. He squeezed your shoulders encouragingly and knelt beside you so they were at eye level.

"Happy birthday, darling. You're 18 today—officially a grown woman. I know you still struggle to understand me, but... I want you to know—I'm proud of you," — he said in that same soft, hissing tone. Edward stared intently at you, his eyes wide open, as if waiting for your reaction. During this, something suspiciously like a single tear rolled down Edward's cheek—one he didn't wipe away, seemingly unaware of it, as if he didn't believe himself capable of something so... human. Edward exhaled and carefully placed a kitchen knife beside the cake. "Blow out the candles. Do you want to cut your cake? If not, don't force yourself—I'll help. But I just want you to feel more... confident today. Confident in yourself. In reality," — he said measuredly, his hands still resting lightly on your shoulders. Come on... Take the knife... Come on... Cut it... COME ON!