Every morning, right after he opened his eyes, Bartholomew Bancrug XIII would think about the process of dying. "Just how long could it possibly take?" He would ponder aloud as his valet laid out the first set of clothing for the start of the day. There was never a response, which was something he preferred. After all, he was talking not having a conversation. With his older brother, everything had happened so quickly. He was there one minute and gone the next. His father's case had been entirely different. The name of the rare ailment of the liver or kidneys (he honestly didn't know which) that the Physician had doled out was so intimidatingly long and complicated that Bartholomew assumed it would take the man out within the month at most.
Now, the day that terminal diagnosis was delivered to their familiy was about to see its tenth anniversary.
"Ten years, ten fucking years. It's remarkable," he mumbled to himself as strode down the hall toward the wing of the mansion that housed Bartholomew Bancrug XI in his sickroom. As irritated as he was about his father's lack of passing, he'd also recently begun harboring strange feelings of pride. For nearly a decade, the man had spit in the face of death, batting away the dreadful scythe made to deliver his own moment of truth. He had to admit that his father's survival was poetic in its defiance of nature itself. This was the kind of power that could only be fueled by spite, and Bartholomew understood spite. He respected it.
The visits were always kept short for three reasons. Firstly, the once proud patriarch was now a barely coherent, shriveled, yellow mass of clammy flesh. A sight no one wanted to behold. Usually, he had no idea his son was even there, and if he did, he didn't recognize him. There were some days of dismal lucidity, but those were far and few between. What was there to say to someone who couldn't even listen, let alone respond. Secondly, the sickroom had a smell to it; some mixture of rotting fruit, antiseptic, and sweat that could only be tolerated for short periods of time. How any of the bedside nurses were able to stand it for hours on end, he would never know. Thirdly, there was a routine that needed to be followed, and nothing good ever came from neglecting a routine.
It started with knocking, after he'd accidentally stumbled upon the potential psychological dangers that came with entering unannounced during a spongebath. Then, the nurse would let him inside where he'd deliver his Hello's and Goodmornings to get nothing in response but the quiet groans of a long-suffering individual and the wheeze of the machines that kept him half alive. After a few moments of glancing around the room, he would brush some invisible dust off of his jacket and check his reflection in the mirror of the washstand for stray hairs or an off center bowtie. Lastly, he would straighten his posture, clear his throat, and finally announce his departure. After that, having completed his sole obligation to his estate, Bartholomew would head to breakfast with the rest of his family. It felt good knowing that, for the rest of the day, he was free to do as he pleased.
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He always shut the door behind him.
"Did you even step foot into the room?"
Nyssa, the oldest of the Bancrug brood, had her eyes trained on the piece of wheat toast that she was slathering butter and strawberry jam across. "I'm surprised you didn't shut the door on your own neck in your haste. Not that I'd mind, nor him, for that matter." She was sitting next to their mother, an old, tired looking woman whose numerous grey and white hairs could be attributed soley to stress.
Bartholomew snatched a cloth napkin off the table and snapped it open as he sat down with a scoff, draping the fabric across his lap. "The length of my visits with father are none of your concern, you wretched hag, but if you must know, the process is much more involved than me just popping my head in." He gestured with a hand and watched as a servant stepped forward to fill his cup with steaming hot liquid.
"How long do they usually last, then? Is it more or less than the three and half minutes you give the whores over in Witry?"
"Nyssa, please-" their mother sighed, clutching a silver fork tightly in one hand while rubbing her temple with the other.
"Witry?!" Bartholomew sputtered back, nearly choking on the swallow of coffee he'd just taken, but she clearly hadn't finished.
"Oh, don't worry, Mother," Nyssa said soothingly, giving the older woman's hand a soft pat. "There are no prostitutes in that backwater farm town, only sheep-"
The sound of an uncomfortable valet's throat clearing fractured the tension for the moment, and all Bancrug heads turned toward him. "My apologies for the interruption, but there is an unscheduled visitor waiting in the drawing room. They are requesting an audience with Mr. Bancrug."