The Little Town of Lillston

Grandpa

Bryson was sitting in his room, staring on his dusty mattress, while his father examined the gashes on his arms. It was late; much past the eight o'clock curfew. He had eaten dinner in his room and only saw his mother when she collected his plate. He heard her go to bed; heard his siblings being tucked in. Then, when Bryson had been falling asleep, his father had come home. He didn't even stop for food. His father just strolled right into Bryson's room, closed the door, and started examining his arms without saying anything. He was ashamed, Bryson knew. His father couldn't stare Bryson in the eye. He'd glance every so often at him, then return to his work.

Bryson was trying to keep a straight face despite the pricks of pain in his arms. His father had decided to stitch his hand and the deepest gash on his arm. He had numbed Bryson's skin, but he could still feel tiny pinpricks of pain. He had moved onto Bryson's arm, and Bryson tried not to watch the needle weaving through his skin.

His father saw him staring at his arm. "This could have been done yesterday, Bryce," he said quietly.

Bryson didn't respond. He didn't feel like fighting anymore. He had already pushed his mother away.

"This is just as painful for me as it is for you," continued his father. "I don't want to stitch up my son's arms."

"I didn't do it," Bryson said through clenched teeth.

"I know," sighed his father. "No one could do this to themselves. I just don't understand why you'd hide this from us."

"I didn't think you'd believe me," said Bryson truthfully.

"We aren't against you," said his father quietly. He finished his stitching and grabbed fresh gauze. "I can't say I know what you are going through, but I know it's hard, Bryson. Your mother and I are trying to help you, but we can't if you won't talk to us. Your brother and sister can see you struggling, and that's okay, but... talk to them. If not your mother and I, talk to them. Sophia may not understand, but Hunter will. He's old enough now."

Bryson said nothing. He couldn't. He felt as if his jaw was wired shut. He was afraid of what would come out of his mouth if he were to pry it open.

"Get some rest," said his father softly. "It's getting late." He finished wrapping Bryson's arms and headed for the door. "Let me know if you need any painkillers."

"Mom said I couldn't come out," mumbled Bryson.

His father sighed. "Then yell." He left the room slowly, closing the door shut (completely shut).

Bryson laid back down on his bed, his arms throbbing. He closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat. He had made a horrible mistake fighting with his mother. She didn't deserve any of his unexplained anger. He could blame his frustration on the monsters and Sophia's nagging, but Sophia was innocent and the monsters were inevitable. He didn't deserve the window in his room. He didn't deserve the bandages his father had just wrapped around his arms. Bryson's face flushed with shame and humiliation. He was a king of drama. He wasn't himself. Something might actually be wrong with him. Maybe he should see a therapist.

A hollow knock rang through Bryson's head. He knew what it was, but he did not open his eyes. He could feel the clown staring at him through the window. For once, Bryson wanted to disappear in his own little world of fear. He wanted to sink into his bed, become paralyzed with fear, unable to identify his surroundings. He wanted his heart to pound; he wanted to get lost until the sun rose. But even as the clown continued knocking, that feeling did not come.

The clown's knocking grew harder, and it became so loud that Bryson was sure Hunter and Sophia would hear from across the hall. He hoped they were alright. He didn't have the energy or will to get up and check on them. Come on, Bryson thought. They're your siblings. It's your job to make sure they're alright.