When I was only 7 years old my father brought home another boy.
"Boy, this is your new brother, Allen," he had said so casually, not even glancing or gesturing toward the small child at his side.
When I shifted my gaze from my father to my 'new brother', looking him over with my one good eye; the other covered by fresh gauze from a recent accident, I felt enchanted.
He was much smaller than me. If I were to press my palm to his, my fingers would more than likely branch further than his. Large grey eyes stared back at me timidly, and I could tell he felt intimidated by my taller stature, even if it was only by a few inches. The next characteristic that caught my eye was his hair; short and choppy at the ends that stopped just short of his small ears, and the color of fresh snow from a distant winter's day.
The orphanage or where ever my father had gotten him must have dressed him. He wore jeans which fit snugly to his small and rather thin legs. He also wore a white dress shirt, only the collar visible as the rest was overlapped by a long sleeved navy blue sweater.
Allen, as my father; Marian Cross, usually referred to as Cross, had introduced him, seemed so… fragile.
I grinned and waved in a friendly manner at him. His only reaction was that his mouth opened in a small 'o' shape and his eyebrows furrowed as he took a step back to hide behind father in a shy manner.
It was three days later I learned Allen was only 5 years old, lacking two years that I had already lived.
It was 2 years later when I was 9 and Allen 7 that Cross began to teach Allen the art of cards.
Cross had never given much attention to anything other than fine wine and even finer women. Even I, his blood son, rarely got his attention. However, within the past year Cross had occupied most of his time with Allen, teaching him not only life lessons he had yet to pass onto me, but also deadly cheats and tricks for various poker games.
Some part of me said to be thankful, who knew why Cross was so focused on perfecting Allen in cards.
Knowing my father, it was nothing good.
A year later on my 10th birthday I was set to move to a small town to study ancient texts with my grandfather who we simply referred to as Bookman. I tried nicknaming him Panda; not exactly the best decision of my life. Every time I called him that I would wind up propelled across the room from a swift kick to the head by the small and elderly man.
I never attended public school, always at home huddled within the confines of our personal home library studying on my own as Cross taught Allen to make fine cuisine and cater to his elders. With the lack of social connections, there was really no one to grieve over leaving other than my younger brother.
Allen was a very emotional boy, but he hadn't shed a single tear on my last day with him. Perhaps it was the fact that the only quality time we had spent together were the late nights he would stare at me from the other side of our small room, silently requesting a bedtime story. I would sigh, sit up, and swing my legs over the edge of my bed, get up and complying.
I grinned and waved much like I had the first day Allen had arrived three years ago. His reaction was basically the same, this time though instead of a step back; he stepped toward me, just a baby step though.
"Lavi.." was the last time I heard him call my name so softly as I climbed into the cab awaiting me and closed the door, seconds later I was off.
.:To Be Continued:.
