Freddie
He shouldn't be up here. Mummy wouldn't be happy, and for some reason, he didn't think Daddy would be either.
But they couldn't blame him! Freddie was bored, and curious, and Mummy was busy with baby Roxy downstairs, making lunch. She told him to go have fun, go play, so that's what he was going to do.
There was lots of boxes in the attic – what did they have that could fill up so many boxes? Toys, maybe? Eagerly, Freddie tore in to one of the boxes, digging and looking and searching.
They were picture albums and books – how boring!
He was just stuffing the books and pictures away when one fluttered out of the box and landed at his feet. He picked it up, and he noticed something peculiar.
His name was at the bottom, but neither of the two boys in the picture were him. Fred and George, was written in curly handwriting at the bottom of the page. Christmas 1997.
One looked like Daddy – both of them looked like Daddy, actually! That was funny. But Freddie could tell which one his Daddy was – his Daddy only had one ear, and was named George.
Stuffing the picture in his pocket, he shrugged. He'd ask Daddy who the Fred in the picture was, the one who looked so much like him. He wondered what happened to the Fred in the picture, waving and smiling and laughing. Daddy had never mentioned a twin.
.::.
Freddie had, in fact, asked his father about the picture. At six years old, he didn't know better – it was only a simple inquiry.
But his Mummy almost dropped the pan on her feet, and baby Roxy burst out crying. Daddy went white, so white that his freckles looked like dots of ink on his face, and he clenched the chair, and closed his eyes.
Daddy didn't speak, but Mummy did. "Go to your room, Freddie, we'll talk in a moment, you aren't in trouble," she whispered.
As Freddie was climbing down the stairs, he felt the tingle of tears prick at his face, and one fell down his cheek. He was a big boy, and big boys don't cry. He wasn't in trouble, Mummy wasn't mad at him. Was Daddy mad at him?
Freddie wondered what had happened to the other boy in the picture. The other Fred. What did Fred do to hurt Daddy so much?
.::.
Mummy had explained it.
He still didn't get it, not really.
"Why am I named after him?" asked Freddie, chewing on his fingernail and hugging his mothers' arm. "Does Daddy want me to be him?"
Strangely, Mummy said nothing, but Freddie heard a concealed sniffle.
"Mummy, are you crying?"
"No, Freddie, I'm not," but he knew she was lying – he had learned, in his six years, that sometimes Mummies lied to make their children feel better. "Your father expects you to be you and only you. No one else, not even your Uncle Fred."
"Uncle? He's my Uncle?" Mummy was breathing heavily, but he wanted to know, there was so much he didn't know... why wasn't she speaking?
"Yes, darling, he's your Uncle. He was everything to Daddy, everything," she said, and when Freddie was a little bit older, he'd go back to that sentence, and analyze it, the grief in his mother's tone, the way she said it, and maybe how Daddy wasn't the only one who was sad about it.
"Where is he?" whispered Freddie. He thought he knew the answer, but he didn't want to pressure Mummy, to make her cry more. He didn't like seeing Mummy cry.
"He's in heaven," she whispered back, rubbing his back in a soothing attempt.
"Is he an angel?" asked Freddie.
Freddie was quite surprised when his Mummy laughed. "No, my dear. But that's the best part."
a/n - I wasn't supposed to cry. But I did. Ungh. For various comps/challenges, wc 639.