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Marc stares at the water, clear and pristine. He can sit in the tub without the dread of it rising above his head, without the screams he can still hear echoing off the caves. Without the guilt eating away at him, saying it should have been him who…
The water’s warm. It’s comfortable. It’s more than he deserves.
RoRo’s gone forever because of him. Because he decided to play in the caves despite the warnings, the rain, and the little rebellious feeling that made him feel so powerful.
RoRo’s gone, and he’s here.
Why is he still here? It’s obvious he shouldn’t be. Mom makes that very clear.
He steps into the water, clothes still on, faucet running, and ducks his head below the surface. He tries to stay under, tries to finish what he started, what mom wants, but pulls out when he runs out of air.
He tries again. It ends the same.
The water spills over the tub as he tries again.
Why can’t he get it right?
He thumps his head softly against the wall. Why is he doing this? Does he really want to die?
He probably shouldn’t since he’s not alone anymore. Steven’s here. He can’t do this to him. Mom already leaves marks. He doesn’t need to do the same. Not to Steven.
Someone bangs on the door and he freezes. He made a mess. There’s water everywhere.
“Marc.”
Mom. Right.
He turns off the faucet and slowly gets out of the tub. All of his energy saps out of him as he pads over to the door, hesitant.
She bangs on it again and he unlocks it.
He doesn’t say anything, and for a long time, neither does she.
“Look at you,” she eventually lulls, standing tall above him with a drink in her hand. “Pathetic.”
Marc doesn’t reply.
“You were never a good brother.”
He doesn’t deny that.
“You were always jealous of RoRo.”
He doesn’t understand what she means.
She looks down at him, then at the bathtub. Marc doesn’t know why, but he looks up. There’s a smile on her face. He finds it odd that she’d be smiling at him.
“Let’s teach you a lesson.”
Marc stares at the water, unfeeling and unfair.
-.-
Jake shoves his way forward when “mom” sees them. She’s drinking again, so this may take a while.
He knows this song and dance well enough to predict the slap across the face, the fistful of hair. She has a belt in her hand, and he steps out of the way as she brings it down.
He’s so tired of this. He wants her to stop. He sees his chance as she repositions the belt and shoots for the buckle, easily pulling it out of her drunk hands and throwing it out of her reach.
It’s the wrong thing to do.
Mom’s bigger than him. She’s stronger. It’s so easy for her to shove him back, and he can’t do anything because that look in her eyes is almost feral. She’s even smiling, as if watching him cower is amusing.
Jake doesn’t know what she’s planning until she slams him into the broom closet and shuts the door. He almost expects her to pick up the belt again, but she doesn’t come back.
It’s dark. There’s no room to move.
He fumbles for the door knob and tries turning it. He’s locked in.
He tries again. Nothing. She wouldn’t do this, right? She’ll come back, finish the job, and leave him bruised and aching. She wouldn’t leave him like this.
She doesn’t come back, and Jake starts to panic.
It’s dark. He can’t move.
He rams against the door. It doesn’t budge. He yells until his throat hurts. He kicks, punches, pushes, and even cries when the feeling of darkness starts to swallow him.
As much as he wants to sleep through it, he doesn’t want Marc or Steven to wake to this. He bangs against the door, his breathing too shallow and quick. He needs to get out.
Marc might handle it better, but Jake is supposed to be able to take this. He’s supposed to counter the worst things their mother throws at them. Compared to the belt, this is nothing. He should be able to take this.
But time trickles by so slowly, and dad doesn’t get off work for another three hours. Mom might be smiling outside the door, or she could be drinking in the kitchen. Either way, she’s not letting him out.
He stays there, standing because there isn’t enough space to do anything else, until he hears the car roll onto the driveway and the front door open.
As soon as he gets out, he shoves control at Steven. He’s better at filtering emotions that aren’t his. He also doesn’t question it.
Jake fades back, and mom’s smile follows him into darkness.
-.-
Steven doesn’t know why he wakes up at night. He never remembers what happened during the day, but sometimes there are reminders. Little hints. A cut here, a bruise there.
During those times, he wakes with tears and so much guilt. He doesn’t know why he feels guilty, just that he is. Whatever happened was because he did something wrong. There’s fear too, but the guilt and remorse drown it out. He shivers at the thought. ‘Drown’ seems too fitting a word, and he doesn’t think he should use it.
Other times, he wakes without the hints, but there’s a strong panic he can’t decipher. It feels angry and unfair, but that is overwhelmed by the sheer desperation to move or yell. It’s strange, because there’s a bit of relief too, as if the moment’s passed and just lying in bed is enough. Being able to stare at the ceiling is enough.
He doesn’t understand why that is, because whenever he tries to uncover the memories of the day, flashes of mum smiling, dad joking, and himself laughing are all he sees.
He’s happy.
But he’s obviously not.
And he doesn’t understand why.
Marc realizes that his brother’s death shouldn’t justify his mother’s rage. It’s been five years, and she still tells him he hated his brother. She still tells him he wanted RoRo dead.
He stares at her, finally seeing through the bullshit his own grief pulled over his eyes.
“You’ve always been jealous of your brother,” she repeats.
The words are familiar, but he hears them now. It’s not just the words, but the tone. Her utter confidence that they are truth. She wholeheartedly believed that he, an eleven year old kid, had enough malice in him to hurt his little brother. That he, her own son, wanted to kill his closest friend.
Because that’s what Randall was to him: a friend and a brother. They’d been close, and it wasn’t just because of blood. They did everything together.
“Shut up.”
He’s not going to let her convince him he hated RoRo. He’ll let her blame him for his death, but she cannot tell him he did not grieve. Does not still.
She stops drinking and looks at Marc. “What did you say?”
He steps back from the stove, leaving the water boiling as he turns to her. “I said, ‘shut up.’”
She’s coming toward him, and he wonders what she could possibly do now that he’s taller than her. She doesn’t have a belt, so he risks a snarl.
“Why don’t you go back and wait for lunch?”
Her hands launch at the pot, and before he can stop her, she throws the water at him. Most of it misses, but a good chunk of it hits his shoulder.
It burns. It’s worse than the belt. So much worse.
He screams and falls back, scrambling away from mom— Wendy. She’s no mother. He sees that lofty smile and wonders how it never clicked before.
“You wanted your brother dead,” she says, returning to her wine and a clear conscience. “You never liked him.”
He’s had enough.
Marc throws on a jacket, grabs the keys, and storms out of the house. He’s going to drink until he can’t feel anything. Until he proves to himself that he’s just as bad as Wendy says he is.
-.-
Jake looks directly into the mugger’s eyes and smiles. He doesn’t know it, but it’s the same as mom’s. It’s that smile that strikes fear, that made him feel trapped, that tells its victim that its holder does not care about the consequences.
There’s a rush of power as he digs the necklace Steven bought into the man’s neck. There’s even a moment of glee when he sees the man claw at it desperately.
So this is why she does it, he has the time to think. It’s loud and invasive, and he shakes the thought out. It sneaks back in anyway, venomous in its tone as it suggests, she just doesn’t take it far enough.
Not that he’d ever let her.
The mugger lies dead at his feet, and he isn’t aware enough to know that the smile hasn’t left his face. It follows him as he disposes the body and cleans off. He scrubs his hands until the feeling of blood is gone.
He briefly wonders if he could ever bring himself to raise a hand against mom. Just to show her what it feels like to be on the receiving end.
When he finally sees the smile, he scrubs a little harder.
-.-
Steven doesn’t wake with cuts or bruises anymore. He doesn’t feel any emotion leftover from when he blacks out. The flashes of memory turn sour, but he still sees smiling faces. Mum’s is especially off, almost as if someone didn’t know how to draw it. There are two types, and neither are pleasant.
There’s no warmth in his days anymore. It’s a bleak feeling, and he knows something is wrong. A voice continues to tell him that he’s happy, but he knows that isn’t right.
He knows because there are new hints to his day. His breath smells of alcohol, or his hands are dry from too much washing, and he can’t remember why he’d drink or obsess over cleanliness.
There are, however, rare moments when hate leaks through. It’s uniform and unified, directed at a single being he can’t make out. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t want to hate anyone.
He wants to know what’s happening.
He goes to sleep, intent on starting his investigations as soon as the sun rises.
When he wakes, his memories are scattered. It feels like he’s lost years of his life. He’s in London. In Chicago. In New York. In Egypt? Back in London. Nothing is consistent.
The only thing that remains is the image of his mother, smiling.
Marc avoids water. Everyone assumes it’s because he doesn’t know how to swim, and he doesn’t correct them.
He doesn’t say anything about flooding caves, or the failed suicide attempt and abuse, or the burn scar on his shoulder. They’re disconnected enough that he can’t explain why water is what sticks, just that it does.
Frenchie, his best friend and brother in the pseudo-family he’s made amongst the mercenaries, pokes fun at that a lot.
“But really, sois honnête,” he sputters after his fourth shot. “The US Marines require basic swimming skills, ouais? So, what’s the actual reason?”
Marc just smiles at him and shrugs. “Mommy issues.”
Frenchie laughs and Marc sips on his eighth drink.
-.-
Jake’s fortunate enough that he hasn’t been locked in broom closets since Marc left Chicago.
It’s just his luck that after they get shot, he wakes up in something far too reminiscent of the dark, enclosed prison.
He doesn’t yell. It’s never helped him before. He searches for the handle and forces his heart to calm down when he can’t find it. He levels his breathing when the door doesn’t budge. It’s heavier than what he’s used to, but he will figure a way out. He has to.
He throws his weight at it. He kicks off the back for an extra push. He pops his shoulder but he doesn’t feel the pain. He’s too focused on getting out.
This is hell, he decides. He wouldn’t be surprised if “mom” is on the other side, smiling as he struggles to keep his mind sane. Not that he can claim sanity after all he’s done.
When he gets out and they’re all in the body again, he takes control for a singular moment. There are people around him, all working for Harrow, and it’s perfect because he needs someone to hurt.
-.-
Steven can’t help the sense of wrong when he sees Marc or Jake smile.
Marc’s is disarming. It charms and tells whoever he smiles at that he’s in control. That he doesn’t actually care about them, and he’ll manipulate whoever to get what he wants. Either that or it’s self-deprecating to a fault. Like everything that goes wrong is his fault. Like he expects someone to blame him.
Jake’s is wild. It scares and tells whoever he smiles at that there is no control. That nothing matters, and he’ll use that to his advantage. Either that or it’s hesitant and nigh nonexistent. Like if he lets it spread wider than a centimeter, then something will go wrong. Like he expects danger waiting for them just around the corner.
Steven doesn’t want to ask where they got those smiles from, or in response to what. For whatever reason, it feels like he knows.
He still has the fragments from years ago, and he can piece them together to realize the first types match mum’s perfectly. From what he knows about her, he can see how the second types developed.
“Steven, what are you doing?” Marc asks, tugging at the arm wrapped around him.
“Hugging you.”
“Oh.” Marc wraps the other arm around to complete the hug. “Thanks. What for?”
“To see you smile.”
He does. It’s almost genuine. “That’s sweet of you.”
“And you should lay off the alcohol.”
“Hah. Alright, that’s enough hugging.”
He tries the same thing later with Jake, who shoves the arm away like it’s cursed. “What the fuck, Steven?”
“I’m trying to hug you.”
“I don’t want a fucking hug.”
“Just one hug.”
Jake grumbles but accepts it, patting the forearm. “Why?”
“To see you smile.”
He scoffs, and the smile hangs lopsided. “Yeah?”
“And you should stop trying to hurt people.”
“Okay. Fuck off, Steven.”