The Unbelievers

Definitions

Nicholas Barrow.

Nicholas
Noun- Nik-uh-luh s
     Patron Saint of Russia; protector of children and prototype of the legendary Santa Claus.

Barrow
Noun- Bar-oh
     A town in N Alaska, S of Barrow Point: site of a government science research center.

Something has always been off about him. The way he walks, dresses and stares seems alien. I like to imagine that he was never actually born... maybe hatched, maybe willed into existence by a satanic cult. His lanky physique and that shy-but-oddly-like-a-serial-killer look he always had made everyone in our house think he had a serious mental problem. Jen, our private chef, theorizes that he collects dolls and hosts tea parties in his spare time. Ronald, the driver, says he steals my mom's underwear. It seems like everyone living at the manor has some off-the-wall theory about Nicholas Barrow but I've always pitied him.

When I was little, five or six maybe, I saw Nicholas bashing his head against a kitchen cabinet after accidentally chipping my mother's favorite coffee cup. He stood there with his pale, bony hands covering his ears, rhythmically striking the wooden cabinetry until puddles of blood formed on the white granite countertop.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. He was a timed bomb that was set to explode any second.

With a stomach sickening crack, he jerked his head my way; those blue, tired eyes were hiding something underneath all the sadness and shame. It was almost like he wanted to say something and couldn't. The way his dry mouth hung open and shook - but never produced any words - still haunts me. Like he had a secret and wanted someone to know. Since that incident my father has taken exceptional care of Nicholas, and Nicholas returns the favor. I can't remember when Nick Barrow was first hired or what he was originally hired to do, but after that day he never left my dad's side. The maids spread rumors that he and my parents were in a polyandrous relationship. It eventually was said that my sister, who was born a month after my seventh birthday, was a product of Nicholas.

...

In a house as big as mine you'd think one could find a place to escape to; as nice a thought that is, it's far from reality. Every room is filled with noise, whether it's the classical music my mother constantly plays, whispers from the staff, the shifting of paperwork and books, or your own nasty thoughts - you are never at peace. Perhaps that's why no one is ever home. Maybe the static gets to them just as much as it gets to me - maybe they just need to escape the noise.

I've always thought the kitchen was the best room in my house. Not only because it has the best appliances, or because it's bigger than most people's garages, but because everyone passes through there. Everyone. Even my father, who never leaves his office. If I sit in the kitchen for a few hours I'll see all the inhabitants of Mason Manor. I spend most of my time in there.

One day, as I sat looking out the window above the sink,