The most important thing that parents can teach their children is how to get along without them.
~ Frank A. Clark
Nicky Aurion learned about his mother's priorities early in life. The list was simple: booze was first, followed by food and rent, followed by boyfriends, followed by her two sons.
"Nicky, shut that damn kid up!" Stella pounded the table, knocking over her wine glass. "Shut up!"
Nicky picked up his baby brother. "Ma, maybe you should go lay down. You look tired."
"I don't want to lie down," she grunted. "I want to have some peace and quiet. I'm going to the bar." With that, she stood, her heels clipping on the stone floor. She was tall and thin, dark and superior, but she had a strange attraction about her. Pin-straight, sleek black hair framed her high cheek bones and sharp features beautifully.
The door shut with a snap, leaving Nicky and the baby in the dimly lit home. Nicky sighed and pulled a bottle down from the shelf. "Shhh," he whispered, patting his brother on the back. "I'm here, I'm here."
The boy continued to wail, just like every other night.
After a bottle, the infant settled down, sleeping peacefully in his older sibling's arms. After an hour, Nicky fell asleep, too, clinging tightly to his little brother.
"Wake up!" Nicky's face stung suddenly as his mother's hand came down. The familiar smells of her came rushing back. Strong vanilla, her cheap perfume; smoke and alcohol, from the bar; and his personal favorite, the only thing about her that seemed normal, was the scent of paper. Nicky would remember that smell until he grew old and died, it was that familiar to him.
"Get your ass out of here," Stella hissed. "Take him with you. Out."
Nicky hitched his still-sleeping brother up onto his shoulder and left, sidling past a stranger half hidden in shadow. The man paid no attention to him. Stella, however, struck him across the head as he reached for the diaper bag. "Get the hell out, now."
"I need to grab the bag," Nicky whispered. "Ma, he needs diapers and clothes and food-"
"Don't talk back!" Stella shrieked, landing another blow to his face. This time, though, Nicky lost his balance and fell, landing on his knees. His brother dropped to the floor, Nicky unable to steady himself before his sibling hit the stone. The infant let out a loud cry of pain, infuriating his mother.
"You, you little bastard, pick him up and-" She stopped abruptly, staring at her son struggling on the floor. "You look like him," she whispered. Suddenly, her interest turned to anger and her foot struck out and smashed into his face. "Out!" she screamed, her rage taking over. The next kick narrowly missed the screaming baby. "Get the hell out, you little son of a bitch!"
The man she'd come home with, who'd been watching silently, looked alarmed. "Stell, he's just a kid, ease up."
Stella was panting, tears down her face. The man reached over and took her hand, which only enraged her more. "Get the hell away from me!" She slapped him across the face, then resumed her abuse of Nicky. The baby was still crying, with his brother unable to comfort him.
"Watch it," the man warned. "Look, I'll get back to you tomorrow or something, just calm down tonight."
Stella beat on the man with her fists. "Get the hell out of my house!" She kept hitting him, beating him back out the door.
"Sorry, kid," he yelled over to Nicky. "I tried, I'm sorry!"
When the man was out the door, Stella seemed to have run out of steam. She collapsed on the floor, sobbing and holding her head in her hands. Nicky stood, grabbing his brother and running into the only safe place: the closet.
Stella never went into the closet. It was filled with boxes, boxes of old pictures and clothes. Once, Nicky had rummaged through them during her tantrum and found a photo album. The pictures were those of a young girl, happy and playing in a park. It took him a few minutes to realize it was his mother. Later in the album, there were pictures of a handsome, dark-haired man in a suit, holding his mother in a white dress. She looked happy, her smile lighting up the photo. The man was broad-shouldered, the type of man any woman would fall for. "A charming devil," his mother told him when he asked. "Your father was a charming devil, who wrangled me into marriage and then left me when he found someone new."
There were other pictures, pictures of the man (Nicky never called him Dad) rubbing Stella's pregnant belly, then holding a baby, then playing with a toddler-version of Nicky. The album ended after that, no more pictures, an incomplete ending. Like his brother, who was almost three months old and still had no name, the album was ignored, but always there in the back of his mother's mind.
In the closet now, though, Nicky didn't look at the pictures. He didn't comfort his brother. He sat down and cried. He held his brother, rocked him back and forth, and sobbed uncontrollably. He was almost twelve, too old for a boy to cry. But it killed him inside, the thought of his beautiful mother being so broken down. He hadn't cried in years, had kept his composure for so long. He cried for what seemed like hours, until he once again fell asleep.
When Nicky woke, his brother was asleep in his arms again. He heard nothing on the other side of the door, signaling safety to leave the closet. He picked up his brother, clutching him tightly. He carefully crept out and saw his mother slumped against the door and snoring. And it all hit him at once.
"She's never going to get better," he whispered to the baby. "She hates us." A surge of fraternal protection kicked in. Whatever happened, Nicky had to protect his unnamed sibling.
He grabbed the diaper bag, filling it with random articles of clothes, diapers, bottles filled with milk, and the only toy his brother had, a stuffed dog that had belonged to Nicky. On the side, stitched on his leg, were the words 'To Nicky, Love Daddy'. Now it belonged to his baby brother.
Nicky slung the bag over his shoulder, picked his brother up, and headed for the door. He stopped, however, and turned for the bedroom. His mother, he knew, kept a jar of money under her bed. "For emergencies," she told him, which usually meant wine when she ran out of money. He thought about leaving some for her, then remembered the kick that had almost hit his brother's head. He grabbed it all and shoved it in the bag.
As he left, Nicky grabbed some of his things: clothes, food, and one book. A deep red color with faded silver lettering on the side saying Myths From An Ancient World. A collection of short stories. He'd read the book so many times, he knew them all by heart. As he finished packing, his brother opened his eyes, cooing quietly.
"Hey, buddy," Nicky whispered. He waved his finger near his brother, who grabbed it and giggled. Nicky smiled. "You're strong, aren't you?" He recalled one of the stories from the book he was now packing, about a Titan of strength. "Let's see, a name for you. How do you like Kratos for a name?"
For a second, the baby's face was blank. Then it lit up with a smile of newly formed teeth and a tiny tongue. Nicky laughed. "Kratos it is. Let's go, Kratos. Let's go far away from here, to a better place. Sylvarant, maybe. Away from Meltokio, this hellish place."
Nicky picked up Kratos, snuck past his mother, and managed to ease the door open and get out without waking her. He started to hum softly, holding his brother close as they made their way past the slobs, the whores, the drunks, and the ill. "I'll protect you," he said softly. "Always."