Till the storm passes

Chapter 4: Requiem D Minor, K 626 I Introits "Requiem"

I do have pleasant dreams. I dream of a tree house. And Lucy is there. And I show her my books and there's sunlight flooding in through the windows. And I am not afraid or worried at all.
When I wake I'm more relaxed. Maybe the concussion did color my judgement. These people didn't kill me in my sleep so there.
I get up and change swiftly into a red sweater, folding the other one neatly since there wasn't a laundry bin. The bathroom has a big mirror. At home my mirrors are covered. I can't shower.
Instead I wash up as best I can before going downstairs.
Breakfast is ready, but the only people here are the kids and Charlie.
"My brother and cousin are off, checking the fences. What with the storm. I'm going to help them," Charlie explains, offering me a plate of eggs and bacon, "What?"
"I can't remember the last time someone made me breakfast," I laugh, taking it.
"Did you sleep well?" Mortimer asks. He's wearing a black button up and bolo tie of a skull. So standard like little kid
"I did actually," I say.
"Your mother didn't make you breakfast?" Phoebe asks, genuinely concerned.
"No, um, it was always cereal, growing up. God, probably the last time someone properly made me breakfast was, ah, I was probably ten. My neighbor, best friend. She and I had this tree fort. Where we'd hide all day. Nothing could touch us, we made up stories, all that. One day her parents were away so we sneaked into the house and made waffles. Her father was always angry with her and her mother and my family was my family we never got to do that sort of thing," I say.
"Is she still your friend?" Phoebe asks.
"No um—when we started highschool she moved away, she moved to her grandparents house I think and I would call but she never called me back. Probably had better friends by then," I say. I was just the lonely boy who cut himself, who would hide bloodstained t-shirts in our fort and we'd pretend I got the wounds slaying dragons.
"What was her name?" Charlie asks, not looking up.
"Hazel Torry," I frown, "Why?"
"No reason um—you said you didn't see her again?" Charlie asks.
"Not not after she and her mother left. They went to her grandmother's, I mean I was thirteen so, you know, this was mostly pre internet," I say, "I've thought of searching her up now but it'd probably be pathetic, friend you had when you were ten. I mean she never called me back."
"Maybe she wanted to, and missed you too. And something—happened. Maybe she died," Charlie says, quietly.
"That's dark, I mean, I suppose maybe but, she probably started a new school and had real friends," I say.
"Maybe," Phoebe says.
"I ah—I should go. Got work to do. You two be good," Charlie says, patting his niece and nephew's heads.
"We will," Mortimer sighs.
I watch Charlie go. That was an odd mood. They're going to kill me aren't they? No. Stop distrusting people. That's what he meant. Maybe something prevented Hazel from calling you and she still thinks of you too. Maybe these guys are just a weird dysfunctional family, and I should stop doubting them.
"Yay we have all day," Phoebe bounces up, "What games do you know?"
"Hmm, not many I'm a really boring uncle, but I know you guys don't celebrate Christmas, but it is still winter time. How about we do a winter activity, in doors?" I ask, picking up the breakfast dishes.
"What?" Mortimer asks.
"I bet you two, are too Gen Z or whatever, don't know how to make paper snowflakes?" I ask, "I can show you how to make a paper snowflake that looks like Darth Vader."
"How about a skull?" Mortimer asks.
"I was a goth child for a year, so that is a yes," I say, grinning, "Do you have paper and scissors your uncle won't mind us using?"
The children gleefully produce paper and scissors. An entire ream of paper Phoebe swears he won't care about. And I decide to not worry about it. After all he left me to baby sit all day paper is the least craft we can do.
The children delight in cutting out the paper snowflakes, and playing music on their uncle's record player.
"I bet you don't know Taylor Swift," Phoebe dares.
"Oh I lived with a twelve year old girl I dare you to find a single Taylor Swift song I don't recognize," I grin. Lucy would put her on all the time. I liked it, I'm usually a classical music fan, I don't do rock, or heavy metal, and I'm not usually a fan of country or pop. But I loved the girl's enthusiasm and now I play Folklore while crying in the shower.
Phoebe takes me up on that and quizzes me on song lyrics. I mostly pass. We play the albums till Mortimer demands at least one go of My Chemical Romance. And we cut paper snowflakes, competing for the most intricate pattern. Soon we're surrounded by a sea of peaceful white paper. I cut myself once and watch the blood drip down my hand. Then I look up at the kid's smiling faces.
When Charlie gets back, he is assaulted by his niece and nephew tossing the smaller snowflakes at him. He nearly cracks a smile.
"The kids were entertained, so was I," I admit, picking a tiny paper snowflake out of my hair.
"We're stringing them up to decorate," Phoebe informs him, before the kids scurry off.
"How's the storm?" I ask, looking down at the cut on my hand.
"Ah—bad, should, clear up soon," Charlie says, awkwardly.
Somehow we both know it's a lie.
"I'll um, I'll clean all this up," I say, gesturing vaguely at the storm of snowflakes.
"Oh, don't worry about it, kids had fun and I'm looking for things for my brother to do —I haven't ever seen these," he says, kneeling down and examining a tiny one.
"Yeah um, Lucy and I one year, she and her mom had just moved so they didn't have anything up. I was babysitting Lucy while her mom worked and we made a bunch of these to string up, it was Christmas Eve," I say, smiling a little at the memory. "Emily came home and was so pissed. I mean we did get paper everywhere. Said I was supposed to be the adult. Anyway sorry—I'll stop saying that."
"You're not bothering me either way," Charlie says, straightening up. He walks over to the bar to pour us each a drink, "What do you say we take this to the kitchen so the kids come help make dinner?"
"Sure! I'm a terrible cook, I microwave everything," I say.
"Then you can watch me," he says, handing me the glass of whiskey.
"How'd you know I like it on the rocks?" I ask.
"I like it like that and I'm a narcissist? I don't know," Charlie says, leading me back to the kitchen.  "What do you like to eat? You said you didn't know. Here."
He tosses me an apple. I catch it, wincing.
"You cleaned up since the accident?" He asks, frowning at my pain.
"Ah—not really no. I'm fine though. I'm fine," I say.
He stares at me.
"I'm completely fine," I say, feeling my pulse quicken.
"Let me check and clean it up you clearly bashed that whole side," he sighs.
"I'm fine," I hug myself.
"Look I'm—I was a first responder. Whatever you got under there I swear on all that's unholy I've seen worse," he says.
"You were?" I ask, "EMT?"
He nods.
"Why'd you quit?"
"I didn't it's part time," he says.
"Oh," I nod.
"Look, it's fine. I'm helping you," he says.
"Okay," I breath, nodding a little. I am not going to a real doctor and if he's an EMT that's close enough. It's probably a good idea it does hurt.
He gets out a very competent medical box and leads me to a bathroom.
"You can pull up your shirt, unless it's on your arm too," Charlie says, practically.
I sigh, tugging at the base of the shirt.
"You're fine," he says.
"It's on my arm don't, just—I know," I say, slowly tugging the shirt off. I keep it on my neck and other side, for what good that does. One quick glance down confirms I'm completely black and blue, and bloodied.
"I think the other car hit that side, it's a blur," I say.
"Where were you going?" Charlie asks. I glance at his face confirms he's unemotional about the state of me. There are obvious self harm scars on my arm but he's not really looking. Well he said he was an EMT.
"Just a drive I'm supposed to—this is pathetic—I promised my therapist I'd leave the house every week, if only to go for a drive. I was going to get out and walk on the beach," I admit.
"It's not pathetic. It sounds like you were trying," he says.
"I'm still trying but actually talking to you guys probably counts for like three months," I say.
"Yeah," he says, wiping the blood with a clean cloth, "My brothers wish I'd make that sort of deal."
"My therapist is cool, um—after new year he was going to find me a tattoo artist, cover some of those. I don't know if I could go through with it but, maybe nice, then maybe I wouldn't panic if people look at me," I say, blushing.
"That's a good plan—if you wanted to, I mean, it's fine everyone's got scars," he says.
"Not like that."
"Not everyone's had to be you," he grunts, rubbing a salve into the bruises.
"That stings," I wince.
"It'll take the pain away here soon, ah, you'll be good, you can put that back down," he says, straightening up.
"Thanks—sorry I'm getting probably blood on your clothes," I say, tugging the sweater back on.
"Clothes I keep for my brother, it's fine," he says, dabbing at my temple where the worst gash is.
"And you told me not to say sorry all the time—,"
"Say sorry as much as you want. I just don't need it," he says.
"I am though, apologetic you got me as a houseguest over the holidays," I say, "When the storm breaks I"ll—,"
"I don't—care about—when it breaks I mean, we're glad to have you. Kids had fun. Now I have paper snowflakes all over which I didn't know I needed," he says.
"I will clean those up."
"I like them there," he finishes, dabbing some salve on my head.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Neosporin, you sensitive to bandaids?" He asks.
"A little," years of cutting will do that. He knows it.
"You'll keep," he says, putting it away, "let's finish that dinner, yeah?"
Dinner winds up being surprisingly good frozen pizzas. The kids are animated and mostly lead the conversation. Charlie doesn't even bring a book.
Nathanial and Flash do not surface and I don't ask why. I don't want to hear whatever the lie is and be reminded it's a lie. I'd like to pretend everything is normal.
After dinner the kids are clearing off for bed, and Charlie picks up a bottle of wine and shrugs at me. I follow him back to the kitchen. He sits on the counter and pours us each a cup.
"How come you haven't asked me where I was all day?" He asks.
"Would you tell me the truth? Because you said it was fixing fences or something and you don't do that in the middle of the storm. So no. I haven't asked because like everything else it's going to sound like a lie I don't want to hear it," I say.
He sighs, "I'm sorry."
"I think that's my line," I say.
"My family life is complicated, that's all," he says.
"Okay," I shrug.
"Do you believe me?"
"I always believe the things I want to. That's how I wind up getting hurt. But I don't have the energy right now. The storm is going to clear off. You'll take me across the river," I say, "Right?"
"Yes, I promise, I'll take you home. Maybe—things will go better for you," he says, looking at the wine.
"I'm trying. You know, I got out of this okay. I will go to whatever tattoo artist my therapist finds. Someone who works with scars. And I'll get a cat, definitely one with a smashed face," I say, taking another sip of wine.
He nods.
"What about you? Any New Year's resolutions?" I ask.
"I was going to read fifty books."
"I mean—,"
"In a row with no one disturbing."
"Wait that sounds great I'm doing that," I laugh.
"I'm sure my brothers have better ones for me," he says.
"Doesn't matter if that's not what you want. Sounds like fun," I say.
He shrugs, pouring me more wine.
"Complicated family just your brothers, or your parents, or is that off limits?" I ask.
"Kind of, absent parents. I more raised my little brothers," he says.
"Oh, right—sorry that's not—,"
"It's fine. Just, what it is, complicated," he says, "I've just got a lot of shit going on. Doesn't have to do with you, I promise."
"Okay," I nod. And for the first time I believe him
I go up to bed feeling mostly fulfilled. He's just got a weird family. It's a remote little, area, out here. I am just being paranoid as usual, because my mind never lets me trust anything including my own mind.