Our Father

What wakes him isn't the sound of the crickets outside, or even the sweltering heat of the summer night. What inevitably wakes him, given the amount of sparkling water he had nervously guzzled down after the events of the day prior, is his bladder.

(They know–)

Reluctant to get out of bed and with the taste of sleep still in his mouth, he first plants his bare feet on the wooden floor beside the bed. Barely opening his eyes, he makes his way to the bathroom.

His feet are sweaty and stick to the floorboards. More disturbingly, whatever dust or cat hair floating on the surface of the floorboards is sticking to his feet. He tsks and regrets not putting his socks or slippers on.

The slippers he wore were his mother's. Nancy often used to make fun of him for wearing them, given their apprently pinkish colour and frilly rosettes.

He couldn't be bothered to find another pair. He didn't care.

After his mother's passing, neither did Nancy. Although, now that she hardly came round anymore, she had no reason to. Since the divorce was finalised, Nancy had made a grand total of two visits: the first was simply to pick up some mail and a parcel that had arrived at the house before she officially changed her address. The second visit was just yesterday. A 'check-in'. She claimed she was worried about Oliver.

"I just wanted to see how you're holding up, Ollie," she had said while stood on the doorstep that afternoon. "Also, Steve sends his regards. I spoke to him over the phone earlier, and he said he'll be getting back from his trip tomorrow. He might pay you a visit."

(Steve. He wants to know. He wants to know if you blabbed to the police this morning.)

"Tell Steve I'm fine," Oliver muttered, with his hand on the door. Before she could respond, he had slammed it shut.

The bathroom floor feels cold. Oliver moves quickly, as if firewalking, to the gritty bathroom mat that lies before the toilet bowl. He doesn't bother to even turn on the light.

He turns to the window that faces the back garden. There's just a sliver of brightness that peeks through, possibly coming from a lamp that remains lit in the house opposite Oliver's. What might they be up to at this time of night? He remembers that the residents of that house are a family of four—Mum, Dad, Little Joey and his older sister (the name of whom has, for some reason, slipped Oliver's mind). To his recollection, they were always a happy family. He and Nancy would often see them at the local corner shop, where Little Joey would ask Dad to treat him to an Oreo ice cream sandwich. Oliver would follow suit and buy an Oreo ice cream sandwich too. There was no denying that they were delicious, after all.

He doesn't come across them much at all anymore. Now that the chilly winters have passed and the sun glows in the sky every day, he hopes that he might hear Little Joey come out and play in the garden every once in a while. It hasn't happened just yet. Perhaps Little Joey isn't really the 'outdoorsy' type.

As Oliver washes his hands, he drops his wedding ring into the sink. He still wears it every day. He's not ready to take it off full-time yet.

As he runs his hand over the suface of the sink to retrieve the ring, he notices how grimy it has gotten.

(I wouldn't have liked that.)

Immediately, he finds a sponge and some cleaning fluid in the cupboard under the sink. He begins scrubbing away at the marble. A wave of something rushes over his head, but it's not clear exaclty what. Is it pain? He might be getting a headache. If so, the strong scent of the cleaning fluid is certainly not helping. Oliver stands back and leans one hand on the edge of the counter. With the other, he rubs the skin between his eyebrows.

(You can't even do this? How do you expect to get anywhere in life?)

"Stop it. Forget it," he says, then forcefully throws the sponge into the sink and leaves the bathroom. Entering the threshold of his bedroom for the second time that night, he suddenly hears three distinct knocks on the front door.

"Oliver?" a voice says.

It's Steve. I don't want to see Steve, Oliver thinks to himself. He stands very still and holds his breath, as if it is possible that Steve might be able to hear him exhale through the walls and ceiling.

"Oliver, I know you're awake." Clearly, he is not completely sure because he knocks thrice again, but even harder this time.

Oliver relents. "What do you want, Steve?" he shouts loudly.

"I want to talk to you. I need to know that you're alright."

Oliver sighs. He moves towards the stairs, but sqeakily spins on the spot to go back and grab his slippers first.

"Hi," Steve says as the door swings open. He does not come inside.

"What, are you a vampire? Do you think you need to be invited in? You're my brother for god's sake, just get in here."

As all British hosts do with guests that come round, Oliver goes to put the kettle on. Steve briskly follows, although insists that he doesn't need a beverage. "It's summer, I don't drink hot tea when I'm sweating," he says. Oliver simply shakes his head. He explains an article that he has read recently about hot drinks having a cooling effect on the body. Of course, Steve contends that it's all mumbo-jumbo from the web, and that Oliver shouldn't be trusting any of it.

"If you're going to be coming to my house in the wee hours in the morning and disturbing my beauty sleep, I would appreciate it if you didn't ridicule a bit of hospitality," Oliver states.

(Don't be snarky to your little brother, Oliver.)

Once the kettle has boiled, the tea has been poured and both men are sitting at the table, Steve starts asking the questions.

"What did you say to them?" he begins, "When they came round, what did you tell them?"

Oliver takes a deep breath. "Nothing. I didn't tell them anything. I had a right to ask them to leave me alone."

Although it was Oliver who took the deep breath before, it is actually Steve who exhales it. "Thank god," he says. He sounds glad, but Oliver can tell that his shoulders have not been completely relieved.

"I'm thinking it too," Oliver says. Steve gives a quiet hum to indicate that he doesn't completely understand. "Who tipped them off?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well someone must have said something. It's been eight years, Steve, and deaths that were ruled as 'accidents' don't pop back up on the police's radar for no reason. Either they randomly stumbled upon suspicious evidence, or someone tipped them off."

"You're right," Steve says. Nobody says a word. Steve tries to fill the silence by taking a sip of his tea. It's natural at first, but as the seconds tick on, the duration of the quietness edges on too long.

"Here is what I think went down," Oliver starts. "You, the younger sibling, watched as I grew under the influence of our father. You watched as I got berrated, and beaten, and hurt by him. You didn't intervene because, at the time, you were young and scared out of your wits. I don't blame you. I was scared too."

"Oliver, what are you—"

"Time went by, and it became clear that he favoured you. Why wouldn't he? A flawless little boy, with flawless little eyes. By the time you were old enough to rationalise and remember your own thoughts, you had forgotten his attitudes towards me, and I had already moved out."

"He didn't treat me any differently to you. He was hard on both of us," Steve says shakily.

"For someone who has perfect vision, you sure have a hard time seeing things," Oliver laughs. "When I stabbed him in the back eight years ago, we agreed to keep it between us. We both came to the consensus that he was a bad man, and he deserved what he got. We had a solid story. We told them he attacked us first, and that the knife was an act of self-defense. It was all going fine and dandy until eight years later the flawless little boy started feeling guilty and sent an anonymous tip to the police."

Steve's eyes widen. He is thankful that Oliver can't see it. However, although Oliver's eyes are as good as blind, his ears work extremely well. And he can tell that Steve has stopped breathing.

"I suppose holding your breath will speed the process along," Oliver says nanchalantly.

"Speed what process along?" Steve asks, noticing his throat starting to close.

"Your tea," Oliver responds as he makes his way out of the room.

Oliver hears a loud thud coming from the kitchen, but ignores it. He picks up a light coat, puts on some real shoes and opens the front door. With his right hand, he gropes around for his cane and walks out, carefully locking up behind him.

(How could you do such a thing to your brother?)

(Oliver?)

(Oliver??)