Arthur J. Smith of Sepulcher was a man of wealth and power. As was his father before him, and his father before him. It seemed as if for as long as time existed and records were written, his family was always associated with wealth and power. Nobody knows when or how their bloodline gained their status, but, no matter what happened, they always seemed to remain on top. Every deal they made, every decision they chose, always went through without problems or interference. Whatever they set their minds to do, they knew it would be accomplished and successful. Even if they walked through life blindly, they could rest assured that life would carry them only to wealth and power.
This way of living, never able to lose the silver spoon stuck in their mouths, especially brought luck to the first born of the family. If you were to look back at every eldest member of their generations, always dominated by a male, their portraits would look just about the same. They were always tall and lean, their broad shoulders expanding their shadows so people before them were engulfed in their darkness. Their grey eyes, sharp as knives, always looked down upon others as if they were prey. Locks of jet black hair, which would be smoothed back by the early twentieth century, would be peppered with grey by age forty, and not a single wrinkle would appear in their lifetimes. Each picture would depict a man of stone, every quality about them being cold, solid, and devoid of true life. Even when the names changed along the family tree, the embodiment of wealth and power always followed the first born.
For the entire time I knew him, Arthur was no different from his ancestors. For a man who could have just about anything in the palm of his hand, he certainly lacked the desire to enjoy life with his vast fortune. His voice and actions were almost as if he had died years ago, and the person I met was an automaton that, no matter how perfect it was programmed, could only imitate the pulse and motions of a real human being. Perhaps it was his mild obsession with perfection, the only feeling he was allowed to feel, that turned the air around him cold. He did not donate to charity in order to help the poor, but to give his name a tiny amount of warmth, which is good for publicity. He did not marry out of love, but out of the need to tie a popular family bloodline with his own. He did not have a child in order to have a bundle of joy in his estate, but in order to raise an appropriate heir that will one day inherit his wealth, his property, and his way of life.
This was how his son, Jacob, completed Arthur’s external family portrait. When I met him, the young sixteen year old boy brought together his father and his mother, Helena. When I was first given a photo of the three of them, I could feel the cold atmosphere embedded in the ink. In between a man of stone and a woman who was a better porcelain doll than a human being was a young man who, like a pond, was being frozen over in ice. Helena’s eyes, an empty, ebony void in the photo, was a contrast with her incredibly blonde hair. Her hand rested on Jacob’s right shoulder as an act of false kindness, while his father refused to dirty his hands by placing them on his son’s left side. At the time, the only thing I found unusual was that the photo did not show Arthur’s pupils or iris, giving his eyes only a milky white hue. However, the only reply I receive from noting this error was that it was just a trick of the light or the fault of the camera.
It was only until I pointed out the shadow in the background, standing behind Arthur’s left shoulder, that I could leave those very people speechless.
And that was only a piece of the mystery behind the Smith family.
This way of living, never able to lose the silver spoon stuck in their mouths, especially brought luck to the first born of the family. If you were to look back at every eldest member of their generations, always dominated by a male, their portraits would look just about the same. They were always tall and lean, their broad shoulders expanding their shadows so people before them were engulfed in their darkness. Their grey eyes, sharp as knives, always looked down upon others as if they were prey. Locks of jet black hair, which would be smoothed back by the early twentieth century, would be peppered with grey by age forty, and not a single wrinkle would appear in their lifetimes. Each picture would depict a man of stone, every quality about them being cold, solid, and devoid of true life. Even when the names changed along the family tree, the embodiment of wealth and power always followed the first born.
For the entire time I knew him, Arthur was no different from his ancestors. For a man who could have just about anything in the palm of his hand, he certainly lacked the desire to enjoy life with his vast fortune. His voice and actions were almost as if he had died years ago, and the person I met was an automaton that, no matter how perfect it was programmed, could only imitate the pulse and motions of a real human being. Perhaps it was his mild obsession with perfection, the only feeling he was allowed to feel, that turned the air around him cold. He did not donate to charity in order to help the poor, but to give his name a tiny amount of warmth, which is good for publicity. He did not marry out of love, but out of the need to tie a popular family bloodline with his own. He did not have a child in order to have a bundle of joy in his estate, but in order to raise an appropriate heir that will one day inherit his wealth, his property, and his way of life.
This was how his son, Jacob, completed Arthur’s external family portrait. When I met him, the young sixteen year old boy brought together his father and his mother, Helena. When I was first given a photo of the three of them, I could feel the cold atmosphere embedded in the ink. In between a man of stone and a woman who was a better porcelain doll than a human being was a young man who, like a pond, was being frozen over in ice. Helena’s eyes, an empty, ebony void in the photo, was a contrast with her incredibly blonde hair. Her hand rested on Jacob’s right shoulder as an act of false kindness, while his father refused to dirty his hands by placing them on his son’s left side. At the time, the only thing I found unusual was that the photo did not show Arthur’s pupils or iris, giving his eyes only a milky white hue. However, the only reply I receive from noting this error was that it was just a trick of the light or the fault of the camera.
It was only until I pointed out the shadow in the background, standing behind Arthur’s left shoulder, that I could leave those very people speechless.
And that was only a piece of the mystery behind the Smith family.