Whispers Of The Damned

Chapter 4: A Fathers Ignorance

When I finally approached the landing, I could see into the crack of my bedroom door, the small, shuddering figure of my baby brother on my bed.

When I entered, the door creaked and moaned, cutting through the air. Between the squeaks of the floorboards, you could hear the feint whimpering under Brandt's shuttered breaths. Setting the books on my clothes dresser near the entrance, I quietly crept to the bedside and sat beside him. The mattress frame was softly shaking from his weeping.

I looked down at my feet and gently placed my arm around Brandt's shoulders and pulled him close. He nestled into my chest and I let the disgraced tears and garbled snot soak into my shirt. His shaking and crying later ceased, and he released me. For a 12 year old, he sure didn't cry much, for this is the first time in years.

Brandt slowly started to avert his eyes towards my feet. Then, to my surprise, he spoke, but it was fast and shaky,

"Carlyle,"

He started, then he collected his thoughts,

"Do you think mom and dad miss me?"

He then looked up at me with dough eyes that were bright red from sobbing. His question stunned me. Does he not think they miss him? Why would he say something like that? I asked him exactly that.

"Well, when she ever talks about me, she doesn't cry, or shake, or bat an eye."

He paused, then added quickly,

"I-I don't know, I might just be overreacting."

I pondered his theory for a moment, then dispersed it.

"Of course mom misses you, she just accepted your passing,"

I caressed, carefully choosing my words. Brandt stayed silent for a moment, and then he parted his lips, as if to say something, but shut them again. His next sentence sent shivers down my spine.

"What about dad?" I didn't know how to respond to such a question, and the answer was clear, but clouded for him. We never talked about that fucker in the Redson house. He once left on a "business" trip and never returned home.

As little as I was, I never understood where the bastard had gone. All of his possessions had vanished. Clothes, belongings, pictures, everything.

I'd asked my mom where he'd gone for weeks after he left, and one day, she snapped. In the middle of the question, she smacked me across the face and told me to shut up. She had never apologized for the noticeable red hand mark on my cheek.

After that, we never talked about him, until now.

"Um, yeah, I'm pretty positive that dad misses you," I lied, knowing damn well that douchebag never loved either of us, let alone our mom. He wasn't even there for Brandt's birth, too busy with "work," which means going to whorehouses and smoking crystal.

"Really? You really think so?"

Brandt said gleefully.

"You bet,"

I chortled, but less than positive. God, I hated lying to him, he doesn't deserve it, but its for the best. For the both of us.