An Apple A Day (Wattys2019)

Intermission

Third Person

20 Years Ago

He sits on the stairs, cowering as his hand grips the bannister. The wood is varnished, shining and smooth beneath the sensitive pads of his fingers. Glass smashes, doors bang and cries of anguish and despair ululate through the little cottage home in east Berlin. He jumps in surprise as the door to the living room swings open, revealing the large man towering in its doorway. The man looks up, hatred burning in his eyes. The six year old returns the look with bitter pleasure.

"Move, you damn brat!" He's thrown to one end of the stairs as the man climbs them. His mother appears in the doorway, clutching the bruise forming on the edge of her cheekbone. It's seconds later when the man rushes downstairs with a suitcase. "The rest of my life starts when I walk out that door, bitch. Good luck with the psycho,"

The last word is spat, almost inaudible as the man slams the front door closed behind him. He stands up on the stairs, rubbing the sore place he fell on. "Mum? Are you okay-"

"Go upstairs,"

"But Mum, you're hurt, I-"

"Go upstairs, little fucking psycho!" Her pointing finger and the screech makes him reconsider his protests, charging upstairs as he wipes tears from his eyes. He slams the door to his own bedroom, curling up on the floor, his back pressed against it. He falls to a crouch.

"Big bro?" The voice is small and quiet, but not as quiet as his own. "Wh-What's happening bro? How's dad an-"

"Dad is fucking gone," he states with satisfaction. He looks up at his little brother, who's just turned 7, with a smirk. "He walked out,"

"What?" The third brother, who's laying on his bed listening intently to NIRVANA on his Walkman, asks in alarm. A cat rests under his arm, who meows in annoyance at the sudden commotion. He sits up, observing his two younger brothers. "Dad's gone? What's happened?"

"I don't know," the middle child admits innocently. "He said 'good luck with the psycho' and that his life begins with leaving us,"

"Tch," The idler glares down, turning up BLEACH to full volume. "I should have known it was all your fault. Weirdo,"

"That's not fair Elias!"

"It's fair,"

The youngest boy reaches out a comforting hand, resting it on the middle child's shoulders. "Don't worry big bro. It's okay,"

The middle child shoves him, pushing him to the floor. His eyes burn crimson, enraged. "Nothing is okay, Ludwig,"

Six weeks later.

The middle child wakes up to his older brother pouring iced water over his face. He sits up, shivering and spitting. "Ah! Wha-What did you do that for?!"

Elias just glares down at him. "Mother says breakfast is ready, psycho," he leaves the room, the middle child recovering from the shock of his awakening. He walks to the mirror, ruffling his hair he considers too short and too light. His mother refuses to let him grow it or dye it.

Hearing a meow, he turns to face the sullen black cat who curls up on the covers, mocking him with her leisurely lifestyle. He sticks his tongue out at her, and in his mind, she returns the gesture. He bounds downstairs in his old, ill-fitting school uniform. A hand-me-down from the much larger Elias which hangs off his small shoulders.

There are two lunches on the table: one reading 'Elias' in black sharpie and the other reading 'Ludwig'. The middle child begins to set the table for breakfast. His mother pushes past him, lost in a daze.