Survivor

“Do you feel guilty that you continue without him?”

“I… we’ve been through a lot, I mean… I know Thomas a hundred percent. I always have. He’s the best man I ever met. I speak to him about, like, everything. We’ve been through more than you think. Millions of people follow me; no one knows me like Tommy does. He’s always there for me, telling me he’s proud of me. Honestly, I feel, that’s… what fuels me… to play. Sorry, I’m sorry. All of this it’s a mess – it makes me sad because everything I ha… Thomas. I never wanted him to retire, and he never told me he’d retire. I thought we’d be in the game together – always. Like we were always. But he’s retired now. So suddenly. It’s going to be a whole lot of effort, but I’m determined to honour our journey with great successes, even if it means walking alone… Our partnership may have shifted, but our purpose remains one. Yes, Thomas is the heartbeat of my career – the unwavering support, the shared dream, the silent understanding. He’s protected me from… all the dark in my life. And I... I feel empty without him by my side. I’ve never felt so low.”

“Loved, you say? Yes, the attention is quite fancied. Heinrich, you are quite the player. You’ve made legend; perhaps even more than Thomas has. Do you ever wonder that without Thomas you would be qualified into the most dignified games more easily? Independent play is valued more than your usual dual partnership. Yes, Lebedev would be quite lucky with you solely on the team’s side… considering Thomas’s recent downfall in the sport. Your career relies solely on your wins; and as you say this job, this success; this is your life. Now enlighten me: what is the purpose of Thomas in your life?”

I didn’t expect to cry.

***

I cry as if I'm the first human to experience pain, then as if I'm mourning at a funeral. It's a primal wail, a silent scream that stretches my mouth into a wobbly grimace. I pout, slit my eyes, and surrender to an inert reaction within me. I know it exists - I feel its embarrassment - and in its vulnerability, I surrender, like a defeated soldier laying down arms. Shame and weakness collide in the form of tears; their dripping agitates the remnants of self-love in my heart. It hurts; a raw ache that isn't defined.

Accomplishing a scene within the borders of my arms, convulsing and bawling till strength drained, I peek at my sole spectator. Thomas's grip on my hand is firm, like a blood brother's- protective and grounding. The garage reverberates with thunder, and in a momentary pulse, Tommy’s eyes gently pierce mine. Hope resides in those gunmetal orbs, yet they hold patterns of tears threatening to spill. The eyes are not 'smoky hot'; simply grey, subtly chromatographed, and somehow mollycoddling. When fear grips me, I find solace in counting the rims of grey within them; such as now, as the storm rages both outside and within.

In a whisper, I admit, "I'm scared." His eyes flicker, and he places his palm over my chest, checking for heartbeat. It's a ritual we've repeated countless times - not for proof of my fear, but because he's scared too. Terrified, really. Scared that I might slip away, leaving him behind.

"It's alright," he mutters. Or perhaps mouths. The garage hangs in deathly silence, now that the household is unconscious. We dare not wake him. Agitated, Thomas further tucks the jacket into the four corners of the cot. It drapes over me, long enough to cover my body and feet. The hood cradles my head, cocooning me like a warm blanket. It's like... being tucked into bed. I'm dizzy with how much I thank God for it.

Thomas's breaths come as if they're numbered - each one precious and finite. I observe the shadows as they portray the subtle rise and fall of a chest that mirrors the build of Superman himself. The dim outlines reveal Thomas as he shifts the stool ever so slightly in my direction. I crane my neck, despite the pains.

I just want to see a friend again.

He snickers; a quiet ripple of amusement. His fingers muse with a lock of hair, the shadows foretell, and I perceive the glimmer of mischief in his eyes. As he scrapes his palm across his mouth, I gawp at the shadow, begging it for a last parting tale.

In my life, such darkness had never been so alive.

“I got lost once,” he stammers, then licks his lips. “Went away without telling anyone.” His words tremble, revealing regret. “It was part of my attention-seeking nature, but this time, I went even further. I buried myself in this snow… down Peregrine Close...you know what happened there- shocked my…”

“Ja,” I murmur, my voice emerging like a hesitant dawn. I sit up with urgency, tears rolling off my cheek. The weight of our shared history presses against my chest as it heaves into life, and I wonder if Tommy feels it too. 

Thomas startles as I sit up, his whisper proud and eyes wide—huge orbs that hold secrets. I try to swallow their warmth, but it lodges as a lump in my throat. Describing them eludes me; they defy comparison. Cinereous blazes and hoary frost clash within those irises; the aftermath yields naïve eyes, a strange blend of colours, and moonlit pupils flashing like stars on a tranquil sea. 

I love them – they defy explanation – fragile in a way that transcended mere words.

“Und…”

“Well, the rest later,” he says, urgency lacing his words. “We need to prepare for a war, brother.”

I flash back to his eyes then—pain etched into their depths, carrying an undeserved burden. His broken voice, the weight of moans, gasps, and tears—all shared with me. His shrill threat, a desperate plea to protect. I snap out of my trance, brought back by his touch.

He’s rubbing my back, grounding me in this fragile moment.

Then there’s a change in him. Thomas's sudden animation draws my attention. His eyes, once distant, now focus sharply, and his mouth reveals a row of jagged canines.

"I pray," he breathes, breath ragged from dehydration, tone urgent, "you've still got the pouch I gave you?"

I nod, retrieving the bag from a crater in the cot. The memories flood back - the pouch Thomas had thrust me during our covert pilfering mission under Father's more lenient rule.

We'd locked my brothers in the garage - gave them a taste of their own medicine - and Thomas issued them a stern warning; a smack in their faces. Make drama in front of Father, and his own father, brigadier, would be using their tongues to polish his boots.

I had only developed a stern respect for Thomas by then; but a pride entangled itself within. I wished for him to be my father, let alone brother. He was younger than me, significantly, but roaring with ferocity, sharpness and independence. He was the man I cried at night to be.

Thomas tugged at the drawstring bag's mouth, causing a spillage of contents: a closed pocketknife, a lighter, two tiny padlocks, a few matchsticks, a flashlight, and two hair clips. Each item now held significance; each item cleared the dreary fog from my head. It was a miracle, biting at the battered corpse of abuse.

All night, Thomas had played games with the garage's main door. Father, weak though he is, had secured the doorway with some heavy load, rendering Thomas's pushing and ramming futile. At timed intervals, Thomas bounced between the main door and another door - the random vintage secondary door in the middle of the left wall in the garage - but both were locked, and no force deterred the locks. But this stash - its purpose was singular, and it proved that God bestowed purpose in that random door.

Desperation moans on Thomas's lips; he’s going to save us. I touch his wrist; it’s warm. My blood pulse sings in sync with his, my face mirroring his determination.

Food. It's ours. And we both knew how to get it. With resolve, Thomas lunged towards the whitewashed door.

I struggle to rise from my cot; I'm weak, and the weakness sends me back to my knees. Thomas is by the door when he glances back at me; his eyes implore me not to intervene, to him handle it. For a few seconds, his toe tips are shakily gyrating over the floor; he hears an evil whisper past him, but silences it through a lip-lick. He rushes in my direction, and before I comprehend, he's seized my body and thrown it down into the cot, so that I lie again. He tucks me in once more, and as he does so, his eyebrows and eyes twitch. He licks his lips then. I see words fail him to explain the instinctive act, and he flushes; pink evident even in the dark. He intimidates a bit more, pierces through, then fades from view and is next seen at the old silver door again.

From the distance, I watch Thomas insert the pocketknife into the keyhole, rotating the lock with a deft touch. He produces one of the pins, pushed it all the way in, then jerks it with a mix of guilt and satisfaction.

His firm gaze meets mine.

I gawk back at him, torn and dumbfounded by proud disbelief. I could have done this years ago.

But I’m free now. We’re free.

Thomas knows I’ll scream, scramble and bolt. I jostle out of bed, and he hurries toward me, scream-whispering: “Laufen Sie nicht weg. Bitte!”

How do I not run away? I’m free. I’m free.

"Stay put," Thomas exhales crookedly, "and I'll get us food". His cheeks puff out, and shame tugs at his tight lips. Fingers slip through his hair; strands nimbly spring back into place subsequently. "If you run away..." His voice gradually disintegrates as he rubs his teeth against his lower lip. He closes his eyes, mumbles a prayer, and blows out gusts of air. "If you run away, he'll come after me." His eyes weigh painfully again, their intensity forcing my face to contort. "You wouldn't want that, would you?" For the first time, Thomas appears weakened; so unable to express the vigour in his own language. There's no confidence. Just dumb fear spoken through plain words. I can't let him sink alongside me; he deserves a life that redeems the joy omitted in my name. I shake my head vigorously. No, Tommy, I don't want you to die.

An inaudible chuckle escapes him, a nod accompanying the reaction. His smirk holds the glint in his eye.

"Good boy; you've always been a good boy".

He's waltzed to the door again. He gently pulls it open- it emits the tiniest of creaks as we share flinches. He winks at me, and yanks the door open to my heart's shudder; there's no sound this time- just a sudden woosh of air. Please may he be drunk dead tonight. Thomas gives me the 'I'm proud' eyebrow, the fatherly grin, a boyish shrug, and he's taken by the wind. His soul turns into these glitched ashes, and he's gone.

There is no hope in memoriam of him.

As I realise it, I reach out for him, my fingertips yearning the battered skin, my breath quickening to suffocating gasps, my heart almost vomiting by the race it's put up to. The pain in my chest is piercing, like a rhino's horn pierces through it, and the burden it weighs on me is exhausting. Now I understand what it means to be mentally and physically exhausted; ill. My uneven breath corresponds with my jagged neck position, and my eyes, I sense my eyes, they're wide like never before, and this diameter in width aches the orbs, bares the red rims. But I can't help myself. Through my breakdown I realise how dumb I've been.

Dumm! Dumm!

He's left me. My superhero left me.

For months now, I’ve dreamt of Tommy; there I'd find the magic in escaping through slumber. Tonight I feel heartbroken. I cannot go back to sleep. Terror and exhaustion hold sway.  

Deep down, I know I’m going to pay for this, more than Tommy is. I know I’m defying my own bloodline. Tommy isn't; to Tommy, father is some sinister figure– ‘sinner,’ he labels him.

No one asks if the child’s asleep.

As Thomas cradles me, smoke veiling his eyes, his raised eyebrows silently question my well-being. I nod, caught in the fragile space between wakefulness and dreams.

Thomas lifts me up, swiftly, as if gaining momentum to throw me up in joy; it’s a delicate dance of strength and care. My knees bang at the cot’s pillars by the sudden withdrawal. Thomas winces playfully, balancing the thrill of liveliness and concern. After pulling me up, he gently plops me down; he’s sweaty and scared I may slip. Physically and emotionally.

I urgently tackle Thomas so I may crawl my way; pain doesn't matter.

Thomas contrasts: "You've been stabbed," and grips my armpits with tender strength.

I don’t risk further harm either. Thomas limps, each step deliberate, and we hug each other, navigating the garage’s shadows. He knows that if this weight trips – not just my weight, but the weight of fear as well – father will come tumbling into the garage. We’re vulnerable.  

Fragile images of hell flicker, yet for the first time, I am heavenly, at peace even; I feel strong.

There's food that will to feed me and extinguish hunger for days. If he makes me purge it all out again, I'll have the nimble satisfaction that I ate something – we ate something – right under Fathers’ nose.

Thomas descends me into the fairy ring of his handmade equipment. I try to process the resourcefulness. It's an architectural marvel for a thirteen-year-old.

There's a paint bucket filled with numerous frozen fish piled on top. As soon it meets my eye, I swiftly grab one of the fish. I did not even think of the act beforehand. Thomas tries to smack it off me; "...uncooked..."

I don't care. I have food. I toast to father’s last breath, and I gnaw at my frozen meal. It almost breaks my molars, if they are not chipped off already by punches.

The fish is frozen, but it's there and my stomach almost expands in welcome of the food.

Thomas looks at me with pity in his eyes.

I do not like it when a person purse their lips and look at me with pity. I cannot give anyone else any reason to look down on me and treat me like Father. I trust Tommy, but it hurts that he has to look at me like this: he questions his sanity; his limit.

Does he want to help a person like me? Sure, any angel would, but at the cost that you get beaten, too? That takes a man of charity, commitment and want.

I stir, and look him in the eyes, silently begging him to stay. I know it’s wrong to drag someone so innocent into the mud with you, but I don’t only want the pain to be evenly spread out, I’m attached to him as well. Been long since I had this brotherly love.

I try to distract him: “Wie funktioniert das?”

He’s shaken into reality; he smacks his lips moist. “You see this paint bucket here?” He instantly points to a large metallic Dulux paint bucket.

“I tipped the paint over the sink… I- I was desperate, couldn’t find anywhere else to put it. So now the sink’s clogged with paint- I…”

He looks at me, puffing cheeks, chuffed and stressed at his incapability to think. If the paint clogs and pipes… and Father.  

“I switched the actual lock freezer with mine. Give him some time to open the freezer and get out the contents. Pray to God we’ll be gone by the time he’s done that.”

But I know we won’t. And Thomas knows it, too. He’s just concealing the embarrassment of the situation he’s put us it.

"So, I made holes in the bucket l," he trails meekly, and to disrespect him, I stare away from the bucket.

Thomas knows I'm listening, because he senses the muted glare I'm giving the ceiling: I don't have anything else worth doing than listening.

"I made six holes in the bucket randomly using the nail I had and some wood I found here. Took some time. I plopped some more wood into the bucket. Then I lit the wood, using my lighter."

I hear the whooshing sound as he whips it from his pocket. He gives it a little click and I fling my head back. Fire. The paint bucket is hot, but it's not warm enough. I need fire. I belly-flop towards him, my hand shaking, begging for the lighter. Thomas puts the fire out, sets the lighter down and helps me get up first.  I’m on my knees. He hands me the lighter and turns it on.

“Careful.”

“Danke schone.”

He smiles and tilts and closes his eyes in acceptance. His black locks bob gracefully.

And that face is stuck in my head as I stare at the interviewer.

Lebedev glares at me, questioning my incapability to speak, demanding a snap-out from the emotional trance. Fev feels my sorrow, but he can't do anything in Lebedev’s presence.

If Thomas were here, he'd take over.