A/N: Sorry, friends! Another not properly edited chapter. Life is SO stressful now I don't even want to wake in the morning, but alas, I have commitments and a cat. Anyway, hope you're all safe and happy. Enjoy!
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Hours later, I could still hear his cries echoing in my head. I was so scared of the sound, wanting to pull out my hearing aid and pretend he wasn't getting beaten right outside the toilet cubicle.
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more
Something... More... Grandad believed that Alfred, Lord Tennyson's Ulysses made a man of a man. And as I stood paralyzed, those verses echoed in my mind. They tore down my walls that, life piled on life, I now desperately wanted to build around Charlie. To protect him the way he did me. Adrenaline came like a shockwave, sending me stumbling out the door.
What I didn't expect was the way that ended. Or maybe I did, and I just didn't mind. Everyone had come and gone after seeing I was fine. Even Tess, whose priority was to check she got my room if I died. After Mum reprimanded her, I could only assure her that she'd have to fight the adults for the master suite.
I appreciated how much everybody cared, but I was glad it was over. My head was caving in on itself, and every voice crashed around like an avalanche.
All I wanted was quiet.
It was after school now and Uncle Tom was on his way. My head pounded, and all I could do was think about Charlie. Not just that, but the fact that I even entertained the thought of a poem. I'd spent the last four years avoiding it, blocking it out. Rejecting it, denying it, placating its dire necessity with other means and methods. Denying an important part of myself.
I'd been doing it for four years out of fear. Yet all it took was finding Charlie in danger. Even as I stood in hiding, terrified for myself, the emotions invoked from that poem screamed out for Charlie. I didn't even move on my own accord. I needed to talk to Tom about it since he was the only person who'd understand.
He arrived, briefly kissing Mum on the cheek before coming to the bedside. "How're you feeling, Aubs?" he asked.
"Fine," I lied, even though I couldn't even begin to describe how everything felt in this instance. "Doctor said I have a concussion and gotta rest for a few days."
He nodded. "That's fine," he said. "Your Mum let me know. I've set up some homework for you and Charlie. It's fine with you, right?"
I felt a pang in my chest. One that might have been fear or nervousness, or possibly excitement, I didn't know. "I... I think so," I said, wondering how I should go about asking. "Um, can I stay over tonight? I wanted to talk to you about something."
Mum's head snapped towards me in surprise. "What about?" she asked.
Tom looked back at her and put out his hand, giving her that, "It's alright, let me handle it" he tended to sometimes. Mum nodded and pulled out her phone, busying herself. He had a way of communicating with her in ways that nobody else dared. But she always understood when it came to me.
Maybe because of how close I felt to him.
"It's fine by me," he said, "Provided your mother agrees."
Mum looked up at us. "Of course, that's fine, but drop him home on your way to work," she said. "Speaking of, I left a casual staff member alone to take over both me and Mrs. Rascal so I'd better head back now."
She came over and leaned past Tom to kiss my forehead. "Tom'll handle your discharge papers," she said. "And be on your best behavior, alright?"
I nodded. "Bye, Mum. See you tomorrow."
"Bye now," she said, waving goodbye as she hurried out the door.
Uncle Tom finished waving her off and looked at me. "Right, I'll go confirm when they're gonna let you out," he said as he pulled out his phone, briefly glancing at the screen. "Shall we pay Charlie a visit before we go?"
My heart squeezed. Since I couldn't bring myself to say anything, I nodded. I'd been wanting to know all afternoon, but the answers were always so obscure. 'He's fine, he's doing okay, he's well.' But I wanted to confirm it. I'd been left feeling restless all day, wanting to see for myself that he was okay. The fact that he'd asked about me too was what got me through this.
It made everything more bearable.
It was already after six PM, but I'd finally get to see him. We reached the nurse's station. Uncle Tom asked for Charlie's room number, only to be told that he'd been discharged an hour ago. My heart sunk. Guess I wouldn't see him tonight after all. Why did it feel like tonight was gonna pass by too slowly?
At a quarter to seven, the doctor ran a final check to ensure I was fine to go. After that, we stopped by a Fish and Chips shop to pick up dinner. We pulled into the front yard. Uncle Tom switched off the engine and got out, running towards the gate. It was made of old and tattered wood that probably existed before my Grandad was born, but a feeling of nostalgia washed over me as I stepped out onto the grass.
Grandad's home.
The night was dark, and the air felt brisk and cold. My sight wasn't the greatest during the day, but low lights were even harder to adjust to. As I pulled our dinner out along with my schoolbag, Tom raced up the porch to the front door, setting off the warm orange glow of the sensor light. He turned back and waved me over.
"Can you see alright?" he called. "Need a hand?"
I shook my head. "I'm fine."
My eye strain wasn't particularly enjoying this challenge, but I made it across the grass to the front door easily enough. It creaked open after a few moments of Uncle rattling the turnkey, and Uncle switched on the light. I was immediately met with the smell of candle wax, sawdust, and books; old and new.
Just as I remembered it.
Some walls were brick and others were made of dark, unpolished wood. The kitchen was wooden, too, but modern and stylized for an old-fashioned chic. Tom had convinced Grandad to do this some time ago, opting for a more functional kitchen. I must have been around eight at the time.
There were wooden shelves built into the walls, with old books scattered in a disorganized fashion, all the way across the open living area. Candles were placed all over everywhere, even across the kitchen benches and windowsills.
A peaceful space, I'd spent half of my childhood here.
Uncle Tom went around the house flicking on lights while I set everything out on the coffee table. I sat on Tom's formerly favorite seat since he'd taken over Grandad's tatty green recliner. He came over with a glass of whiskey and set it down beside him. He unwrapped the newspaper from around the chips and dished himself some before pushing it towards me.
"Thanks for setting up," he said, grunting with exhaustion as he sat down. "I'm getting too old to exist."
I raised my brow at him. "Hardly."
"I'm forty-eight already," he said, picking up a chip and chewing on it with an absentminded expression. "I'm certainly not getting any younger."
When he seemed to register that he didn't like the chip he was eating, his face scrunched into a grimace. "How much salt is on here?" he asked. "How do they afford to keep the place without running out of salt stock?"
He took another gulp of whiskey while I grabbed some tomato sauce from the fridge. I handed it over to him, knowing he loved it and was probably too tired to even realize he'd forgotten about it. Well, in fairness, so had I. "Thanks," he said, accepting it and pouring it over his plate. "Lifesaver."
He swallowed a heap of fries this time, nodding with satisfaction. "That's better." He took another sip of whiskey, and leaned back against the chair, resting into it. He looked curiously at me. "So, what's been on your mind, Aubs?"
I looked down at my plate and picked up a chip, not sure how hungry I felt now that they were right in front of me. "Um..." My stomach was churning. Not from any particular nausea, but from nerves. "In the bathroom today, during that fight, I um..."
I didn't know how to say what needed to be said. What I needed to ask; to deny or confirm. How could I approach this topic? What did I even want to know? What did I want to hear?
"You've been worried about Charlie, yeah?" he asked, making me look over at him in surprise.
"Yeah, I guess so," I answered. "But how did you know?"
"Charlie's somewhat of a funny mixture of class clown and teachers' pet," Tom said, raking his hand through his hair before taking another swig of whiskey. "He isn't the type to go around getting into fights. I've been teaching at your school for three years now and he's never gotten into any sort of trouble before now."
I nodded. "That's true."
"And to see him break out into a fight like this," he continued, "Was incredibly out of character. He'd started off being attacked by those boys, right? Yet as soon as you're involved, he loses it."
My eyes widened, staring at Uncle Tom with disbelief. "What...?"
Tom chuckled. "It's not exactly hard to put it together," he said. "One way or another, there's no way you haven't affected each other in some way since that recent accident in class."
"But how did you-"
"Your Mum and I talk," he chuckled, taking another swig. "There's something special there between you both, even if you don't recognize it straight away."
This made it easier for me to bring up the topic of poetry. "In the bathroom," I said, trying to find the right way to word it. "Those guys came in after me. I freaked out and locked myself in. Then I heard Charlie's voice, and them attacking him. I couldn't move... but a poem popped into my head."
"Which was it?" Tom asked, leaning forward and running his hand through his brusque but light stubble.
"Ulysses," I said, recalling the verse. "As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life. Were all too little, and of one to me. Little remains, but every hour is saved. From that eternal silence, something more."
Uncle Tom's eyes widened, looking shocked. He let out a sharp breath and skulled the last of his whiskey, picking up the bottle and pouring himself some more. I could see his eyes going red, glistening just a little more than they were seconds ago. Then they were visibly red, prickling with tears. Was he... crying?
He nodded, taking two more swigs. He grunted, clearing his throat and scratching his chin. "Ahem," he cleared his throat for a second time.
"Uncle...?" I asked, watching him run his fingers through his hair.
"Fine, I'm fine, sorry," he chuckled, leaning forward and clasping his hands together, resting his chin on them. He sniffed. "Okay, and then what happened?"
I studied his expression for a moment, which remained hardened despite his sniffing and the redness in his eyes. My senses told me he was crumbling but refused to show it. Deciding to humor him, I gathered my thoughts and kept the topic on focus. "Well, then I found myself rushing out and throwing myself into the fight."
His brows raised, nodding. "You haven't entertained poetry over the last four years, have you?" he asked.
"...No," I said. And I'd preferred it that way, too.
"And this sprung on you outta nowhere, right?" he asked, gazing straight into my eyes, daring me to refute it.
I nodded. "...Yeah."
He leaned back in his seat again, taking another sip of whiskey, seeming to have more control over himself now. He released the first few buttons of his collared shirt, pulling it away from his throat. "You know, I grew up under your Grandad's wing, right?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Since you were little, right?" I asked.
"Since I was born," he corrected. "I lived right next door to here, the house on the right. I grew up there, but as soon as I was old enough to play in the front yard by myself, I was always going to hang out with him on the porch. You know what he loved most, right?"
"Poetry," I answered.
"That's right," he agreed. "He'd be reading it, writing it, studying it relentlessly. He wasn't a scholar, he knew nothing about the mechanics of poetry, but he loved its purity and authenticity. He could take a poem out from its original context and apply it to any point in his life that resonated with him."
"That isn't normal?" I asked, wondering if I'd misunderstood it for all these years. It's what I'd been doing all this time.
Tom chuckled. "It isn't really what we're taught to do in school, no. But it doesn't alter the value of poetic prose or devalue the original artists' intention, so there's nothing I can see that is inherently wrong with it," he said, then paused with some consideration. "He did it, and so did I."
He took a handful of chips and kept eating, so I quickly did the same.
"I know why you avoid poetry," he said, "And I get it. If I was your age when it happened, and if it was me in that car with him, and me who had to live with the physical and emotional consequences of it, I'd probably've dissociated from it too. But..." He paused, apparently thinking how to stage the next part. "You know your aunty and I split up some years back, right?" he asked.
I knew he married Grandad's daughter, one of my aunties who now lived overseas with her current husband. "Yeah," I said, nodding.
"Well, the truth behind our divorce was that she'd cheated on me," he said with so much nonchalance that I was almost taken aback. I adjusted myself in my seat, picking up another handful of chips.
"I was surprised, of course," he continued. "Shocked, even. But my relationship with your Grandad didn't change. Your Grandma made me hot drinks every night thinking I was probably a traumatized mess. Your Mum constantly called to see how I was getting on."
He paused for a moment, but I didn't feel like it was my turn to speak, so I waited for him to continue.
"Truth is," he said, "I wasn't fazed. I was never a romanticist. All my love and feelings came from poetry. And even when something did upset me, I can't remember a time where I ever cried that Robert wasn't there to wipe my tears."
Uncle Tom chuckled with fondness, shaking his head at the recollection. He took another swig of his whiskey. "Honestly, spouting a few out of context poems was all it took to calm me... And I've cried three times since then."
His eyes looked like they were prickling again, returning to a redness I hadn't realized faded out before. With a choked-up voice, he said, "The first was the joy and relief to hear you survived and would be okay. The second was sometime later. When it finally sank in that Robert was gone and would never come back."
I gulped, feeling tension forming in my chest. "And the third?" I asked.
He smiled sadly. "When you told me you'd never do poetry ever again."
I blinked, feeling that rising tension transforming into violent waves. "What's the reason you're telling me this?" I asked. Exposing his reason for divorce, laying out his vulnerabilities, all of this to his non-biological, sixteen-year-old nephew.
Why?
Tom sighed and ran both his hands through his hair, then leaned further forward and allowed his leg to jitter. "Robert was my safe space, and poetry connected me to him. That's why I haven't let it go. Because for me, it keeps me close to him whenever I feel alone. To me, poetry is safe. I see parallels between me and Robert, and you with Charlie."
I blinked, unsure what he meant.
He chuckled in response. "Let me ask you this, then," he said, staring into my eyes with grave intensity. "How does Charlie feel to you?"
I recalled those brief moments with him. His lifting me onto my feet in my backyard. Helping me out of my shoes. Wrapping in me in a towel and pulling me into his arms. His warm touch against my cheeks, lips on my forehead, holding me while I slept. Rescuing my hearing aid, keeping it safe, supporting me in the water, eager to be a part of my world. Screaming for me to stay in hiding while he copped the abuse because he feared for my safety.
Only one word sprang to mind.
"Safe," I said, dumbfounded by this realization. "I feel safe."
Uncle Tom grinned at me, taking another swig of his whiskey.
I whispered, "Charlie is... safe."