Note: This is sort of an angsty little one shot that I wrote. Let me know what you think. I may decide to write this into a story, it all depends. Hope you enjoy!
For You
I finished setting the table, humming a small tune. I looked at the little pocket watch that my father had left when he abandoned his dying wife and children. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the tears to go away. They wouldn't, so I read the time through my tears. Five-thirty P.M. My brothers would be here soon. I took freshly baked bread from the oven and set it away to cool. Then I stirred the soup as I thought of what had happened.
Back in Midtown, I had been a maid, working for a rich family while the boys worked in a factory. After a while my brother's seemed to notice I was sad all the time. When they found out why, they were furious. My employers often spoke cruelly to me, treating me more like a slave then a hired servant, often striking me. That's when my brothers decided enough was enough. They got a job from our uncle, and we moved to Manhattan. Now we lived in a small, three-room apartment. The boys shared a room and I used a small bedroom next to theirs. I heard a key turning in the lock and my brothers stepped in, looking a bit roughed up. I didn't ask questions, just dipped a rag in some water and wiped their cuts. I knew working in a newspaper distribution center didn't offer the highest pay, so I never really asked about work.
Oscar always said, "Emily, we're doing this for you." So I never asked why when they came home bruised and battered. I didn't question why they had holes in their clothing from fighting. All day I stayed in the apartment, cleaning, cooking, and sometimes reading when Oscar and Morris had extra change to buy me a little book. I didn't ask when my brother's came home angry, or when Morris woke up during the night promising revenge to some poor soul. I didn't even ask why my brothers had changed. Back in Midtown they never got in fights. But, back in Midtown they didn't have the bad influence of an uncle.
When Oscar and Morris were all bandaged up, I sat steaming bowls of soup and hunks of fresh bread in front of them. I started to wonder what they did at their jobs. Was it simply counting papers for the newsboys to buy? When late evening began to creep in, Oscar and Morris prepared for bed and another day of work tomorrow.
"Goodnight Emily. Love you," Oscar said, kissing me on the cheek.
"Good night, Sweetie," Morris said, giving me the same type of kiss. I knew he was trying to be like a father by calling me "Sweetie," and I didn't mind it too much. Then, as their door shut, I wondered about the questions I never asked. It made me wonder if I'd ever have the courage to ask. But I could almost hear Oscar saying, "Emily, we're doing this for you." For you.