"The Great Aureolus Belli once said,
The most valuable thing in the world is the Great Truth.
Human beings...human life...
They are not capable of grasping this truth.
We cannot merely sit idle and await the future.
We must dedicate ourselves to the realization of the Truth!..."
-Lorenzo Belli

So I decided to make a little Haunting Ground fic where Lorenzo narrates his descent to madness.

If you do not like speculation about characters, then kindly leave so I will not have to tear you to virtual shreds.

Haunting Ground (c) Capcom (Thanks Capcom!)

Prologue: "The Great Truth"

"Sir?" the coachman asked nervously. "Lord Lorenzo?"

I blinked, and turned my head in his direction. He looked away, he seemed fearful of looking into my eyes.

"We're here..."

I wordlessly walked out of the coach, looking at the great, stone castle that loomed in the sky. I assumed that this was the house of my mother's brother and his family. They were wealthy, but I have never heard of them. I saw a man clad in black standing near the entrance, and he motioned me to approach. I slowly walked towards him, hands behind my back, taking long strides. I reached him. He could seem to handle looking into my eyes, since we had the same, bright gold irises.

"Sir." I said, bowing slightly.

He did not smile, nor did he frown. He had the same, expressionless face that my mother had, the one I hated so much.

"Ah, Lorenzo." His face looked a little happier. "I am your uncle, Grimoire."

I bowed once again. "Thank-you uncle."

"I'm sorry for both of their deaths..." Grimoire said. "First Mortimer, of an unknown sickness and then Cassandra, who poisoned herself. Cyanide, how painful."

Vertigo, catastrophic confusion, cardiac arrest. Psychological and physical pain. As we started to walk into the castle, I smirked to myself. Our footsteps echoed through the empty halls as I observed my new home. Everything was symmetric, if there was a chair on one side, there would be another chair facing it exactly opposite to where the first was. All the furniture was set at a perfect angle. I looked up as we reached the staircases; many murals adorned the ceiling; depicting angels and demons battling for dominance.

"I am sorry we could not assist you my boy..." Grimoire said.

I looked at him, he seemed genuinely shameful. "I was close to your mother and father, but I'm afraid our research has gotten in our way."

I pitied him for a moment, but raised my eyebrows. "What research, uncle?"

"Alchemic." His tone suggested he did not want to carry on the subject any further...and I knew not to harp on about it. Uncle Grimoire led me to my room. It was large, furnished with a nice, four-poster bed, numerous desks, a dresser and bookshelves. A crystalline, stainless mirror hung on the wall adjacent to the bed There were numerous windows, and even a balcony. The walls were covered with oil paintings that depicted former masters of the castle or still-life country scenes. My uncle looked fondly at me as I gave a more than satisfied look at the room.

"Rest now, you'll meet my wife and daughter at dinnertime...I'll send a servant to notify you." Uncle Grimoire left, but I was not tired. I sat in one of the chairs, facing the mirror.

My father told me I looked like him, but I had my mothers eyes. Those golden, unnatural eyes that made people look away from me. My hair was red, like my fathers', but I preferred it long and had it in a tail. My face was strong and stern-looking, always in a frown. But the girls in my old home told me I was attractive, but I shrugged off their affections. I had no need of it. I rose from my seat and approached the bookshelves. They all contained books and papers on alchemy. I smirked to myself; my father, Mortimer Belli was a great alchemist, and I wished to be one as well.

I hated my mother, I really did. She never loved my father, nor me. She just sat there, looking into our fireplace, with that same expressionless face. While my father was there for me, she never was. She would just look on. My accomplishments at the local school never pleased her, nor my uncanny ability to make alchemic properties like Refined Magnesia or Antimony Powder. Somehow, the household and the guests were under the impression that my parents were deeply in love. I knew they weren't.

Mortimer Belli married Cassandra Dei out of pure infatuation. My parents married because they were still attracted to one another; and that Cassandra was pregnant with me. My parents lost interest in each other after two months of the marriage; my father held the marriage together. I guess he wanted to stick with his vows; my father was a really devout Anglican. But the servants never saw what I did; they didn't see the line of distance between my mother and father. They never saw their backs turned at each other as they slept as I curled up next to my father. And the servants never noticed my mother's absence as my father lay on his deathbed, coughing up blood from this unknown, damned disease. The day that my father died I started to make my way to the sick-room to watch over my father. But I saw Cassandra walk out of the room, carrying an ill-concealed syringe in her sleeves. I hid behind a chair as she walked by, and once she was out of the hallway I ran to the sick room. He was breathing harder, he was paler and he looked much worse. I heard footsteps behind me and was shoved out of the room by the resident Doctor. He slammed the door. The servants began to congregate around the door, yet Cassandra was absent. A few hours passed and I continued waiting outside. It was evening when the Doctor came out and shook his head. He allowed me to have my last moment with him. I walked into the room, and saw my father lying there, looking like a pathetic, dying animal. Father only had the strength to smile at me, and to wipe off the blood off his chin and mouth. He last few breaths were painful, and soon they stopped. As usual, I never cried.

Everyone thought that Cassandra committed suicide after my father's death, but she did not. I slipped some cyanide salts in my mother's afternoon tea and watched her suffer. Over a course of a week, the poisoning got worse and worse. Soon she was on her deathbed, and I was allowed to have a moment alone with her. We only looked into each other's eyes. She tried getting out of the bed but she could not. My mother knew it was me who was killing her. Her eyes glanced to the poker near the fireplace, but she was too weak and dizzy to rise from the bed. I only looked into her eyes, giving her the coldest glance I could. I slipped a heavy dose of cyanide salts into her cup of water. I forced the drink down her throat, and kept adding more and more. I stopped once there was no more water left in the nearby pitcher. I saw her chest tightening as she lay there, her lungs getting tightened, her heart forcing itself to stop beating. Her eyes were so wide, and she begun to shake violently. I only looked into her eyes with cold ones, and soon the shaking and her breathing stopped. I walked out of the room as the servants congregated, fawning over the beautiful woman that committed suicide to be with her husband. They did not notice my absence at the funeral or at the wake. Everyone in the house pitied me; to have my mother die on the day of my eighteenth birthday. Little did they know that it was probably one of the greatest presents of my life.