Brahms Heelshire - Lamb to the slaughter

Part Two - A loving heart

I take a moment to look from the faces of Mr Heelshire to his wife standing next to him to see any held back amusement within their aged features. But they are still looking back at me, smiling faintly, as if they are silently hoping that I accept this as naturally as they have. So it is not a real boy that I am looking after, it is a porcelain one.

There is something that I have noticed about the fake child within the chair. It doesn't look identical to the family portrait, but it does have a handful of similarities though. Small things like the way the hair is brushed and eerily pale cheeks. But they are obviously not the same beings.

What happened to the real Brahms, if there was ever one? What is the situation that caused him to not be here and be replaced with a surrogate child? Is it that Mr and Mrs Heelshire weren't able to have kids of their own and used a doll to compensate?

But that boy, drawn and painted upon paper, has to have been somebody. At some point, at least. While getting ready to pose for the picture, I wonder if they actually used the doll and asked the painter to change certain little things, if they paid some child from the town to pose for them or if this was the real Brahms.

But it is not in my position to be asking on such sensitive areas when I can just try and find out through different ways. If the real Brahms died when he was a child and they are using this fake human to help with their grief, then maybe I can do the same. Then again, I don't have the choice to back out at this point.

I kneel down next to the child doll, taking up one of its cold, porcelain hands. "I hope we can get along, Brahms. May we just pray you'll behave like a good boy for me while your parents aren't home." Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr Heelshire walking over to the dresser and take two or three pieces of paper off of them.

"Here are the instructions which are to be followed when you are looking after our young man. Please try to stick to them as best you can. We have found that Brahms can be quite mischievous when things don't go the way he is used to."

I scan over the rules briefly, nodding my head in agreement. Mr Heelshire walks out after saying this, presumably to get their bags downstairs. While waiting for him to come back and collect her, Mrs Heelshire shows me how to wake up Brahms, where to play his favourite music and how to put him to bed.

We arrive back at the entrance where Mr Heelshire is standing. I am holding the Brahms doll upon my hip as if he was a real boy. The front door is open and I can see the driver from before piling several bags into the boot of the taxi. I wonder why he drove away the first time. Maybe to get some gas or something.

I don't think too much about the driver outside and turn to the elder couple in front of me. The husband walks out side after he has said his goodbyes to both me and his fake son. He almost seems like he is saying them for the last time. There is some sort of finality about it. Maybe he is just a strange character.

Mrs Heelshire stays behind to say her own goodbyes to the boy before bringing both me and the tiny child into an unexpected hug. This surprises me slightly as she doesn't seem like the type for physical affection. At least, that's what I thought before she whispers, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." before pulling away, turning around to face away from me and not say another word as she makes her way outside.

I watch her walk out to the taxi and get in along side Mr Heelshire. They exchange silent words with each other before the taxi starts to drive of. They give me, the doll on my hip and the house one last look before turning away again.

I walk back through the front doors, going back into the living room that Mrs Heelshire showed me briefly earlier when showing me where to play the music. I sit down on the sofa, moving the doll so it is sitting within my lap. I hold it there with one hand and use the other to pull the pieces of paper Mr Heelshire gave me earlier from my pocket.