Buried Truths
When I was younger, I used to think life was perfect, full with the beauty of nature. I never saw the harshness it could give me. Or at least I did, but had forgotten.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been moving from foster home to foster home. Never finding a real connection with my many families. But I didn’t care. At least I had my older brother with me. He always stood up for me, always been there for me. He was my real parent in every way that mattered.
The foster parents, on the other hand, were always abnormal, like ghosts in their own home. Their laughter echoed when my brother spoke. I was only ever an afterthought. Their voices snapped into silence as I entered the room.
But this family? This family was different. They gave my brother scornful stares. Distanced themselves, as if they were afraid. But they welcomed me in with hugs, wrapping around me like a warm, comforting and safe blanket. Yet emotionless, as if some mysterious wind lingered in the air, setting a chill on my brother’s shoulders; his smile blocked by the shadow of regret.
“Crash”.
An uproar came from the basement. I slowly stooped down the stairs, like a burglar in the night. At first, I smelt the dry rust, the honed tang of the room that tickled my throat. I gulped in fear. I saw sharp yet rugged, small yet deadly pieces of wood, all clattering around the floor. Then I saw the blood, creepily trickling down my brother’s forehead.
Blood rushed to my head, that scene, why was it so familiar? To the side was the mother, panting, sweating, or were those tears? She was holding the leg of a chair.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I shrieked in terror. My voice still shaking from the view before me.
I lunged towards my brother, but a firm hand yanked me back. My foster dad. His grip was tight, merciless, before I could even react he had already dragged me up the stairs, and into a small, cold room – his panic room. He locked the door behind us, the click of the close echoed like a gavel sealing my fate. His pale face was a brick wall, cold and unmovable, and as he slowly came to life. He told me everything, his voice steady but heavy, each word carried a weight he had been holding onto for years.
My foster dad detailed he was a detective working tirelessly and endlessly on a case. He knew my brother was involved, but had no proof. So when he saw us in the orphanage, he adopted us. What?
My mind was still cracked, like shattered glass, serrated and painful. These fragments of memory slashed through my brain as sharp as the broken chair pieces. My brother holding a wooden chair, smooth and inflexible, like a knife’s edge. My mother on the floor, red drops of water dripping down her hair. The smell of iron. He had killed her… Why?
How could these memories be locked in my head, behind bars? How could they only unravel themselves to me now?
To this day I still don’t have these questions answered, all I do know is that the world can be harsh, behind the beauty of nature, is the endless question of why?