Requiem [COMPLETED]

Well, Some of These Things are Illegal, Technically

Certain things remained the same and I clung to them, even if I wanted something different, like how Sven always directed the conversations, determined what we could speak of and what he didn't want to think about. I should have pushed him to divulge more. I should have made him treat me as an equal, as another adult. I didn't though, so it went: Sven, half the time talking around what he should have bluntly told me, then distracting me to talk about something else or stonewalling me. Occasionally he seemed open—but only when it ended up being a memory I regretted bringing up.

"I wanted to ask you about a memory—I can't remember something and I was wondering if I was just forgetting..."

"About what?" His face was careful and I had misgivings; maybe he wouldn't answer this question, just like with so many others.

"When mom died," I explained, "I can't remember you; you weren't there after you hauled me back to the house to call for help. It's all just a blank until the funeral when you sat next to me the whole time holding my hand. And I remember holding your hand tight because I was scared you'd disappear again, just like mom did and never come back."

His face was frozen.

"Sven? Am I totally not remembering something? What did I say?"

He shook his head abruptly. "Nothing, it's just... no that's, that's what happened."

"Where did you go?" It should have been such a simple question.

He stared down at his book unseeing. "I... grandpa was..." he cleared his throat, "I got in trouble for using the telephone without his permission. Or that's what he said. I think he was upset that I'd called 911 and brought a swarm of cops and medics to the farm prowling around."

"So where were you?"

He looked so sad. "In the basement," he said, his voice catching.

"For four days?" I let him take his time responding, getting his emotions under control. It unnerved me, seeing his face go through unfamiliar contortions, flashing through rage and fear and other things I wasn't sure I could label.

"Two. It was only two until the morning of the funeral." He rubbed his neck, his hand resting protectively around his throat. "He wanted her buried as soon as possible, I think. He let me out in time to go do chores that morning and get ready for the funeral."

"So he punished you by sticking you in the basement?"

"He just left me there Sigrid. I started to wonder if he'd let me out or not, if I'd starve down there. But it worked; I never used the phone again," he said without expression.

"Grandpa punished you way more than me," I replied. "You know that I knew, right? That it wasn't even?"

Sven just looked away, his face contorting. I caught a brief glimpse of his curling lip. Most of the time the things which I could agree with him on weren't enough, weren't the overarching acceptance of his worldview that he demanded of me. The little concessions he seemed to despise because they only highlighted for him how much I didn't believe.

More often than not, I didn't get anywhere with my questions. There was a lot Sven wasn't ready to enlighten me on. There were plenty of times that my questions became non-sequitors.

"How did you get all those scars on your back? I never noticed them before, are they new?" I'd walked in when he was getting dressed; he'd thought I'd be up in the kitchen longer.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, angry tears welling up that he brushed away, opening his book again and reading with apparent avidity—or determined concentration.