It was me in there( 9-1-1 )

Flashback

Buck was no more than six years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the basement. The musty smell of old wood and dust filled the air, mingling with the faint echo of silence that always seemed to settle in this room. He had found Daniel's old toys, long forgotten and hidden away in a box marked with his brother's name. It felt like a secret treasure chest, one that Buck had stumbled upon by accident—or maybe, deep down, he had been searching for it. Searching for a connection to a brother he had never really known.

The toys were simple, old-fashioned things: a fire truck, a handful of action figures, a few puzzle pieces. But to Buck, they were treasures—pieces of his brother's past that he could hold, could touch, could pretend with. His fingers curled around the small plastic fire truck, and for a moment, he let himself pretend. Pretend that Daniel was still there, that the basement wasn't as empty as it felt, that the family wasn't as broken.

He made the fire truck zoom across the floor, his little fingers pushing it along the ground, imagining he was in the middle of some grand rescue. He smiled to himself as he pushed it forward, making the sounds of sirens in his head. He hadn't played like this in so long. Not since... Not since Daniel had died.

A soft thud echoed from upstairs, the heavy sound of boots against the wood floor. It was the sound Buck had come to dread. He knew who it was before the basement door creaked open. He didn't need to look up to know it was Phillip.

"Buck," came the gruff voice, low and filled with annoyance. Buck stiffened, his small body going rigid as he stopped playing, the fire truck in his hands suddenly too heavy to hold. He didn't dare look up. Not yet. Not until he had to.

Phillip's shadow loomed over him, casting a dark shape across the floor. "What are you doing down here?"

Buck swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his little heart pounding in his chest. He knew the rules. He knew better than to touch Daniel's things, but something about these toys—about connecting to a memory of his brother—had drawn him in. He couldn't help it.

"I was just... I was just playing with Daniel's toys," Buck muttered, his voice small and hesitant, barely a whisper. His hands clutched the fire truck tighter, like it might give him some sense of comfort, some sense of safety.

Phillip's eyes narrowed. There was a pause, a silence that hung heavy in the air, before the man took a step forward. "Those toys aren't for you," he spat, his tone venomous, as if the very thought of his son playing with Daniel's things was some great betrayal. "They were Daniel's. Not yours. You understand?"

Buck's heart sank. He opened his mouth to protest, to say something—anything—that might explain himself, but he couldn't find the words. His throat felt tight, like it was closing up, the fear clawing at him from the inside out.

"You're not Daniel," Phillip continued, his voice cold, his anger simmering just below the surface. "You're nothing like him. Stop pretending you are."

Before Buck could even register the words, before he could even fully process the sting of his father's voice, a fist came crashing down onto his cheek. The impact was brutal—sharp and sudden—sending a jolt of pain through his small body.

Buck's head snapped to the side, his vision blurring for a moment as tears welled up in his eyes. The fire truck fell from his hand, clattering to the floor, its wheels still spinning for a moment before it came to a halt.

"Don't you ever touch his things again," Phillip snarled, his breath heavy with rage. His hand was still clenched in a fist, and Buck instinctively recoiled, unable to stop the tremble that ran through his body. He wanted to run, wanted to hide, but his legs felt like lead, like they wouldn't work, like he couldn't escape the weight of the moment.

Buck's face burned where his father's fist had hit him, the sting spreading across his skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth that he felt inside his chest. His father's anger was like fire, scalding everything it touched, leaving him feeling like nothing—less than nothing.

"Why do you always have to ruin everything?" Phillip growled, stepping forward and looming over him. Buck could feel the rage radiating from the man, the weight of it pressing against his chest, choking the air out of him. "You think you're just like him, huh? You think you can just take his place? You'll never be him. You'll never be good enough."

The words cut deep—so deep that Buck could feel them echo in his chest long after they were spoken. The idea that he could never be good enough, that he was always going to be a disappointment, a shadow of someone who wasn't even alive anymore. That thought sank into Buck's bones, and it stayed there, like a heavy stone that he could never shake off.

But the worst part? The worst part was the silence that followed. The silence that stretched out between them, broken only by Buck's uneven breathing, the taste of blood in his mouth where his father's fist had struck.

Phillip's face twisted in disgust as he looked down at Buck, like he was something to be ashamed of. And then, without another word, he turned and walked back up the stairs, his boots heavy against the wooden steps. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Buck alone in the dim light of the basement, his body aching, his heart shattered.

Buck sat there for what felt like hours, long after the sting of the punch had faded into a dull throb. He didn't cry. He couldn't. Crying only made things worse. But the weight of his father's words, the anger, the bitterness—it hung over him, suffocating him, until he could hardly breathe.

He stared at the fire truck on the floor, its wheels still spinning in circles, and for a brief moment, he let himself imagine a life where everything was different. A life where Daniel was still here, where his father didn't hate him, where he wasn't just the kid who couldn't live up to the impossible standard of a dead brother.

But that life was a fantasy, a dream that couldn't exist. And as Buck stood up and walked back toward the stairs, he left the basement behind him, along with the toys and the memories of a brother who had never truly been his.