The Beginning

Nicky

"Give me the keys, Oscar." I had finally made my way to the kitchen. The hooks where all of the keys usually hung had been emptied and there was only one culprit left to bully.

"I told you eight-thousand times, Nicky. I don't know what happened to the keys. They weren't here when I got here." Oscar spat back at me.

"I know you're lying." I pointed a finger in his face.

Pushing my hand back, he replied matter-of-factly, "You got stabbed, what, like ten times?"

I didn't really know to be honest.

"What's going to stop me from just knocking you over?" He wondered.

"What's going to stop you?" I reiterated the question.

"Yeah, exactly."

"What's going to stop you is what'll happen when I'm right as rain." I reminded him. "Give me the fucking keys."

"Roni and Marc took them! I'm telling you!" The audible vibration of his phone silenced me. Oscar's hand went in for his phone, then he faltered. His eyes widened as glanced up at me.

"You going to get that?" I lifted my brows.

"I don't know if I should." Oscar looked me over. "You're not going to take it, right?"

I rolled my jaw from side to side. Of course I was. "No." I assured shaking my head.

Reluctantly, he withdrew his phone. No sooner had he turned to face to his that I had snatched it from his head.

"Nicky, you said you wouldn't!" Oscar tried to retrieve it.

"Stop!" I barked back at him, typing in his passcode, twelve-nineteen. "You're going to tear my stitches."

"Oh now you give a shit." He hissed. "You don't even know my password."

My thumb tapped the blue icon at the bottom of his screen. "Cicely Tyson's birthday." I replied monotonously.

"What the f--"

"It hasn't changed since two-thousand-four." I observed, opening his most recent message. Wrong one. Greeted by salacious pictures, I was quick to back out. Second from the top, a group chat among the brothers. The message, only two words, stole my breath. "Dad's dead."

"What?" Oscar breathed as he studied my expression. "What's wrong?"

I allowed him to tug the phone out of my hand.

His eyes fell on the message, bouncing from left to right as he repeatedly read it. "I know that I screwed up with Desiree, but I really need you to let me in." He swallowed audibly. "Please, Nicky."

Recounting the stories, things left untold, I found an unfamiliar pang of guilt. A sensation I only felt when I hurt someone I loved. I suppose that I could admit to myself now that Hannibal was truly someone I cherished. Good or bad, he would've done anything to keep me safe, healthy and sane. It made me wonder if he would've let me pull that trigger. He was the one, after all, tasked with getting me inside in the first place.

Would it have been like the time we stole marzipan from the corner store? Our first true thieving experience had me shaking, sweating. Hannibal was as calm and collected as I'd ever seen him. I tried to get him to back out, but instead, he placed that sweet treat in my palm and pocketed one for himself. He made it look easy. As a curtain of sweat dripped from my forehead, I fought to keep calm. Beside him, strength was much easier to come by.

Or perhaps it'd be closer to the time we found ourselves day-drinking in a trap house at seventeen. We'd gone for the weed, stayed for the alcohol, and stumbled upon something we'd never tried before. Crystaline, almost glass like, inside a tiny plastic resealable baggie, I reached for it. Hannibal slapped the color off the back of my hand. It wasn't the first time that he told me no, but it was the first time he looked fearful that I might not listen.