NOTE: We hereby acknowledge the presence of the UK brothers:

Allistor (Scotland)

Patrick (Northern Ireland)

Dylan (Wales)

Content note: mentions of death and self-harm

CHAPTER 10

His Story

Fifteen years ago

For Arthur, summer had always been the best season. At this time of year, his family would spend a couple of weeks together to explore the most splendid beaches outside the country. When he was eight, his father took him sailing.

Arthur's tireless persistence eventually won his father's attention. His brothers might take after their father more than he did, striking physical resemblances and all, but he favored his youngest more than anyone else.

Deep in thought, Arthur stared at the expanse of the glimmering waters before him, the French Pacific islands forming giant silhouettes in the distance.

"Ça va?" His dad asked.

Arthur blinked in surprise. "Oui, ça va."

"Où est Francis?"

He shrugged. "Je ne sais pas…" he said. "Il a dit qu'il sortait avec ses parents aujourd'hui, c'est tout."

Francis was his only playmate around. They would never bother talking to each other if it wasn't for their parents being good friends, having vacation houses next to each other in Cannes. It so happened this summer that both families planned to spend a few weeks in the same island outside the coasts of Europe.

His father was about to speak when Arthur asked, "On peut parler en Anglais maintenant?"

He laughed and rumpled his hair.

"Francis makes fun of my French. All the time." Arthur pouted, his face falling behind folded arms.

Why couldn't everyone speak English instead? The boy sighed and studied the mild waves rocking the sailboat. Despite Francis' regular teasing and overall annoying presence,his company was more bearable than his brothers'.

He took his mind off the thought and drank in the scenic sight stretching before him. He loved being alone with his father. If he was left at the house with his brothers, surely, he would be the center of their taunting, the victim of their rowdy games, like always – throwing him to seven feet-deep pools when he was still learning how to swim, hurling pebbles at him, calling him Fatty, those typical brotherly games.

Arthur couldn't understand why they despised him so. Their parents barely had time for them, and when they did, his brothers would be on their best behavior, making it hard to imagine the things they did to their youngest brother in their absence. But Arthur kept quiet about it. The mere thought of going out as a family was another reason to look forward to summer and it made him feel better.

Their moment of peace was interrupted by a sharp thunderclap. Everyone predicted it was a good day for sailing; no one mentioned a possible drastic change in weather, or knew about it in hindsight. Seeing the darkening sky and the sea's growing rage, they thought it best to go back.

Before they could leave their spot in the vast sea, Arthur heard a loud thud and a strangled yell. The next second, he found his father on the floor, writhing in pain and cradling his head with his hands.

"Dad! What's wrong? Daddy, please tell me!" Arthur was on his knees, his pleas remained unheard as his father moaned incoherently and lay motionless.

Overwhelmed with panic, Arthur paced the boat, trying to figure out what to do. What was happening? He couldn't bear listening to his father's agonized screaming. They were in the middle of the sea with an incoming storm and there was no one to help. It was his fault; he shouldn't have forced his dad to go sailing.

It was his fault.

The boat fell silent once again. His father had stopped moving, his eyes closed. Did he fall asleep? Arthur couldn't see clearly through his tears. He could only cry and shiver uncontrollably, losing consciousness to the continuous roaring of thunder overhead.

The following events were washed away from his memory. His next recollection was waking up with the sand underneath him, his mother's arms providing the warmth he needed. Blurred images of Allistor, Patrick, and Dylan greeted him upon opening his eyes, almost undistinguishable with worry and despair on their faces.

"D-Did you find Daddy?" Arthur managed to utter through chattering teeth.

His mother's arms tightened around him as a response. His heart shattered into pieces at the sound of his mother's weeping, her tearstained face pressed against his cheek.

It was all his fault.

Gertrude Jacobs-Kirkland lived the life most women aspired to have – maintaining a successful career and a happy marriage, all while mothering four wonderful boys. Her dream-like life continued thriving until the summer her husband passed away from aneurism while sailing, and it was then when she watched her world slowly fall apart.

Coming home from the tragic vacation, she and her children were welcomed with the most disturbing silence. Things weren't the way they were before, and would never be again. The boys struggled to cope, her youngest one taking the hardest blow.

For months, Arthur had been a walking empty shell. He shut his emotions and rejected help, kept his distance from everyone. Mrs. Kirkland thought he needed more time to cope and be back to his normal self again, but as months passed by, he showed little sign of recovery.

Deciding he couldn't go on that way, she sought help from a therapist. The post-traumatic stress was undeniable. He was irritable and even more sensitive than before; he complained about having headaches all the time and used this excuse to avoid going to school.

The doctor handed him a notebook. "Write about what you feel," he said, looking at him through earnest eyes. "Or draw about it. It helps."

Mrs. Kirkland watched as Arthur took it in his hands and said nothing else.

He had a strong affinity for art. Maybe this could bring his interest and old life back.

A few weeks later, Mrs. Kirkland entered his room to check on him. It was the longest time since he stopped having night terrors that occurred on a regular basis. She would wake up in the middle of the night with Arthur screaming in his room, and she would be by his side to assure him it was just a bad dream and put him back to sleep once he was at peace.

A faint smile touched her lips when she found him clinging to his teddy bear, the one his father bought him. She smiled even more at the memory of four-year-old Arthur saying 'please' very nicely until his father finally took him to the toy store. He didn't feel the need to cry his eyes out and scream like other children. He was her little angel.

She sat at the edge of the bed, smoothing the hair on his forehead. Her heart broke at the sight of him, so fragile and unsure of his place in the world, unaware of his worth. If she could only tell him how happy she was to have him in her life. She regretted her failure to give him the attention he needed, but was willing to make up for it.

Before leaving, she saw and opened the notebook on his nightstand. It was empty.

During that same year, the Kirklands decided it was time to sort out the things their late father left behind.

Still hesitant to take part in this, Arthur slowly entered the room to find his brothers, ready to flee if so they wished. They stopped talking the moment he set forth.

"Keep your hands off of Father's things, you black sheep." Allistor said. "He'd still be with us if it weren't for you!"

It was a common fact that Allistor was the most emotional among them, the one who got carried away very easily. Arthur knew it best.

"Allistor, stop it!" Dylan said, standing between them. "Nobody wanted it to happen. Don't take it against him! It wasn't his fault!"

Allistor had none of it. He would say what he wanted, what Arthur ought to know.

"Yes, it was!" he continued. "You know it was!"

While Dylan tried comforting their younger brother, Patrick called their mother to tell her about the brewing situation. Arthur remained rooted in his place, closed his eyes, took deep breaths, and counted. Allistor let his emotions turn into words, endless chains of hatred and anger against Arthur's ears.

"Shut up!" Arthur finally yelled back, hands covering his ears. "Shut up! Shut up!"

He could take so much until for the first time since the funeral, he broke down.

Bursting into tears, he marched out of the room, but the taunting and hurtful accusations trailed behind. He found himself in the kitchen, breathless, breaking down, and brandishing a knife before his brother, his own flesh and blood.

"Go ahead!" His older brother provoked him even more, eyes brimming with fury. "Prove to everyone what you really are!"

It was too much. Arthur could hardly think through anguish and tears, missing the sight of Patrick and their mother rushing down the staircase to stop the commotion. But it was too late. Time stopped as Arthur plunged the knife to his own stomach, sinking slowly into the ground, encircled by a pool of blood.

Maybe everyone would be happier without him.

Present

Alfred struggled to find out what to do with himself after the ordeal. He couldn't tell what he found more disturbing: seeing Arthur fall unconscious or watching him jolt awake from horrible memories triggered by the traumatic experience.

He immediately appeared at Arthur's side when he tossed and turned and hollered in bed, wanting so badly to wrap his arms around him and tell him he was safe, safe with him, but held back as he was afraid Arthur would act differently as he did at the shore. He helped Arthur calm down and catch his breath with utmost care, which he figured the best way to go.

It took Arthur less time to recognize where he was and what happened. Finding himself back at the guest house, he reckoned someone must have carried him from the shore, changed his dripping clothes, and tucked him in bed. A plain white shirt replaced his jacket, exposing his hideous arms for the world to see, something that required an explanation from both sides, but neither of them dared to say a single word.

Arthur needed someone to listen as fragments of the past begged for release, and Alfred stayed by his side through it all. Alfred's chest tightened with remorse, learning what Arthur had been carrying with him the last fifteen years.

"If I knew about it, I wouldn't've—," Alfred trailed off, running out of words to say. His next words came as a whisper. "I'm so sorry…"

"I know." Arthur sank back to the pillows and turned to his side, still shivering under the quilt.

Alfred listened to his calm breathing, the only sound existing inside the room. The full moon was a bright disk in the starless sky, shedding light through the glass door.

"It's not your fault."

"Maybe not."

Alfred took the preceding silence as a cue to leave. He could count the moments in his life when he ran out of words to say, and when they happened, he would find comfort in music. He sat at the balcony with his guitar, plucking it gently while humming to himself. The notes streamed into the night, crashing against the waves and the sea breeze, softly, softly, letting it take him to sleep. He would wake up next morning and whatever happened this day would dissolve into nothing but a bad dream.

But the bad dream is what we call life, and nothing will be the same between him and Arthur.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Is anybody still reading this rubbish or am I left alone to my lousy ideas?

Yes, nothing will ever be the same anymore after we take a glimpse of Arthur's past. (It gets worse). I hate portraying Arthur's brothers as monsters, but that was how they were looking back to their childhood. Don't worry, they won't be as horrible next time.