Behind the Skin

Chapter 2 Home

His mother was an extrovert.

His dad was more on the quiet side and only showed affection in the most subtle of ways, but his mom would always hug him to her chest and rock him back and forth, saying that everything was going to be okay. That he would live through this apocalypse that mankind had brought upon itself.

He remembers her deep brown eyes, the way she’d pat his head to make him sleep. The sweet floral smell of her oils. The taste of her cooking. The way she’d always nag him to socialize. Get out of his room more often and make friends.

Remembers how she believed in him.

He believed in her too.

Right until the moment she slit her own throat.

They used to have a family picture but he burned it the moment his dad brought another woman into their house.

Had a child with her. As if it didn’t matter that his mom was now dead. As if he never loved her to begin with.

He thinks he hates his dad for being so heartless. But he doesn’t think his mom died from heartbreak.

His parents were happy together, he could see it in their eyes. Could see it in the way they held hands over his small pre-teen self. His father might’ve moved on faster than he expected him too, but can’t wholly blame him. Maybe his mom would’ve wanted him to remarry. Maybe they had talked about it. It makes sense, no matter how much he hated the mere idea.

What didn’t make sense was the blood. The knife that dripped red, laying next to a cold, limp hand. Beautiful raven hair, as if she had just come out of the shower, strands spilling on to the wooden floor, falling over her eyes. Lovely brown eyes that stared back at him when he pushed the strands aside.

As if she wasn’t dead, just lying very still. As if there wasn’t blood still seeping from her neck, coating her white dress that deep crimson.

As if her throat wasn’t slit.

Bratis woke up in a cold sweat.

The temperature in the room was freezing despite the sealed windows and the heating. He was sweating profusely. Outside, the sky was lightening from midnight black to blues and purples. It wasn’t even dawn and there were two more hours before morning but he found he couldn’t go back to sleep.

When the time came round for breakfast, a woman called up the stairs.

“Bratis! Ren! Breakfast, boys!”

Ren was outside, playing with stray pups on the road. Bratis was still in his room since it was the weekend. The city is busier on weekends, which was why he preferred to stay indoors. His legs dragged against the flooring as he came downstairs, lips set in a thin line. The woman noted his attire and looked away when Bratis saw her staring at his clothes. She didn’t say anything, instead going about placing the bowls. Bratis didn’t try to contain the scowl. If she was disapproving of his dark denims and washed out black jumpers then it was her problem.

Ren was already seated at the table, short legs dangling below the stool.

“Good morning”, he greeted the other, adding a bright smile at the end.

Bratis didn’t bother to acknowledge it, picking the stool farthest from the golden haired boy. Hurt flashed on Ren’s face and he looked to his mother but she only shook her head.

She was golden haired too.

The same porcelain skin and iridescent blue eyes.

The woman pours oatmeal for all of them and sits down herself. Asks about school and homework. Friends. What they would like for her to cook for dinner tonight. Bratis turns a deaf ear to her voice and focuses on his food.

Ren talks about the grade he got in math and the woman presses a kiss to his temple, proud. Bratis’ pauses briefly, fingers tightening around his spoon.

He hates the mere sight of them.

Mother and son slip into an easy banter and Bratis looks pointedly at the old desk by the window. There was a time a few years back when his father would sit there every morning reading the newspaper. At evenings he would be there again after dinner, reading one novel or the other, always explaining the story to Bratis. The wood held stains from coffee mugs and the drawers would still house the man’s crystal cut whiskey glass. Leaning on a small rack on the tabletop was an array of hardback novels, catching dust. Forgotten. Like the man himself. It’s fitting, thought Bratis, casting a glance at the people he would never consider family. His father had left them here not long after Ren was born. This strange woman and her repulsive son, both of whom came as a curse in his life. He blames them.

Blames his dad too for wedding another woman and putting her in his mom’s room.

“….Bratis?”, a voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “Bratis, dear are you listening?”

He looks up and the woman is looking right at him. Ren is no longer at the table but rinsing his bowl in the sink. Bratis’ meal is only half eaten.

“What?”, he snaps at the woman, but her eyes only soften.

“I was saying we needed coriander if you were going through the market today”

And now he has to do her chores too.

He doesn’t give her a reply, choosing to slide off the stool and place his half-eaten bowl next to Ren on the sink.

“Oh, I’ll do that”, the boy was only cheerful to help.

“Shut up”, said Bratis behind his shoulder and headed back to his room.

The house was old. It was the house that Benjamin Reed had built for his newlywed wife Lillian. The floorboards were creaky and growing mold. With the change in climate and increase in filth, the house was rotting from the basement down. Wild plants grew between the cracks on the outer wall, bright little wild flowers in tiny clusters smiling at the disaster that called itself a home. If Lillian was alive, she would’ve paid mind to such little things. Would’ve hired help for the garden and repairmen for the light fixtures and the creaking doors and the kitchen sink that clogs all the time.

Anastasia doesn’t do any of that.

Bratis sometimes wishes that if his dad absolutely had to remarry, he could’ve picked a better woman. Someone Bratis wouldn’t hate so blatantly.

The door creaked as he opened it and again when he shut it closed. Atleast the floor wasn’t as creaky in this part of the house. He hated noises. He also hated light, which is why the blinds were drawn at any given time of day. He stopped in front of the dresser and a pair of dark eyes stared back at him from the mirror placed on it’s surface. Dark unruly bangs were falling over his eyes. If his mother was alive she would’ve nagged him to cut it by now. His hair was dry and splitting on the ends. She would’ve massaged oils into his head while he slept, the sweet scent of jasmine and almonds reaching his nose, instilling a sense of peace within him.

He considered throwing the mirror against the wall.

Wouldn’t be any good. Anastasia would just have a reason to come into his room after all these years.

He sits on the bed and removes his phone from charge. He sees the message alert while going through his notifications and pulls up his mail. The sender’s address is located in Washington, some obscure technology firm with watermarks claiming confidentiality all over the place. But Bratis has received several of such emails and knows exactly where they’re coming from.

It’s the place his father went for employment after he left the tabernacle. Not the Brooklyn Tabernacle, but a smaller ripoff called St.Mary’s Tabernacle located right here in Sheepshead Bay. A shady little place, if the rumors were anything to go by. It’s not like the people around here were very religious so Bratis never understood the point of having a church. The townsfolk avoided that place and anyone known to have relations there was subject to discrimination or worse. Bratis himself was not subject to bullying but he had his fair share of stares and odd looks. As if everyone was repelled by his mere existence.

The email read of his dad’s concerns. They always did. He would repeatedly mail Bratis and ask him to pack up and move the whole family to Washington, where he promised clean water and hygienic living conditions. The government had apparently flushed grime out of select cities and New York wasn’t on the list. And Benjamin missed his family and wanted everyone to be together again. But crime rates were lower where he was which is why Bratis never showed any of the mails to his stepmom.

Anastasia was a good wife and mother, but she wasn’t his mom.