The sweet sound of birdsong gently woke the lighter twin as sunlight filtered into the room and warmed his face. Connor slowly blinked his eyes open and he immediately focused on his brother's bed, fully expecting to see his exhausted twin sleeping comfortably. But instead of being greeted by the sight of his long-lost brother, in place of seeing Murphy's dark mop resting on a feathery soft pillow, the bed was empty.

Jesus. Jesus, no. Was it just a dream that Murphy came home? Is he still missing? Would the heartache of separation rip Connor's heart to shreds once again?

A cold wave of nausea coursed through the teenager's trembling body as his hands fisted the sheet, his knuckles white with fear. He took a shuddering breath and stared wide-eyed at the other half of the room, his eyes darting rapidly as realization slowly sunk in. There isn't much to see, actually…..just a stuffed rabbit carefully placed on a worn knapsack next to a properly made bed.

Connor sighed with relief as he sat up, his brow furrowing with confusion as he studied Murphy's handiwork with critical eyes. Never, in all his life, had Murphy made his bed. Well, at least not without being told to, anyway. And never this neatly either.

The rabbit-print bedspread was packed away the night before but the blanket Murphy used was smoothed flat over the bed, its edges tucked tightly under the mattress. The sheet was folded over the top edge of the blanket and the pillow was placed against the headboard, in the exact center of the mattress.

It took Connor a few moments of contemplation to figure out why his brother's bed looks so…..weird. There isn't a single wrinkle visible in any of the bedding, not one solitary crease, even the pillowcase is pulled taut. Everything is too exact, too pristine. It looks almost military. Fucking hell, you could bounce a quarter off the mattress.

Connor got to his feet and he stood at his brother's bedside, not knowing what to do. He didn't want to make a big deal out of Murphy making his bed because really, it's just a bed. But at the same time, it's so much more than that. It's a visible sign of how regimented Murphy's life became while he was missing, how strict. How controlled. Even after he's back home and safe, he still made his bed with the precision of a marine. Shit, what sort of punishment did Murphy receive to make him conform to this standard?

As Connor debated with himself, his younger half was one floor below, thumbing through a worn photo album at the kitchen table. Each picture was familiar and every once in a while, an image sparked a piece of a memory that teased Murphy with its lack of clarity. He chewed on his lip as his hand drifted to his forehead, his mind struggling to remember just a tiny bit more of his life's story.

Fucking hell, his head is pounding. His fingers rubbed into his skin but offered no relief, his eyes barely blinking as he focused on the confusing snapshots and tried to make sense of what he saw.

Connor's approach went unnoticed, his twin was far too engrossed to hear the quiet footsteps, and the older boy paused in the doorway before disturbing the peace. Connor couldn't help but stare at his brother's appearance and his eyes suddenly pooled with tears, wondering what sort of hell Murphy had lived through.

Murphy wore another one of Connor's sweatshirts but the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing a long jagged knife wound that traveled up the length of his forearm and disappeared under the sleeve. Huge finger marks had darkened overnight and the bruises formed a macabre pattern of pain that accentuated the severity of the carved flesh. Scabs had formed over the cigar burns on Murphy's other arm but the skin remained the bright red color of infection with a slight swelling around each wound. His jeans were the same dirt-covered ones he'd been found in but there's a fresh blood stain on his thigh that seems to be growing, it appears wet and sticky.

Connor blinked back his tears, willing himself to be strong. The police said not to push too hard or insist on answers but fuck…..Murphy is bleeding. He's probably in pain. Connor has to do something. But what?

In the blink of an eye, Connor made his decision. He'd trust his instincts. The blood stain isn't very big and Murphy is still taking pain medication; Connor's not about to spook his brother and make the situation worse. Instead, he'll tread lightly until he finds a way to get Murphy the help he needs.

"Morning, Murph," Connor announced as he stepped into the room and made his way immediately to the refrigerator, loudly rummaging inside. Shit, he actually sounded carefree and happy. He's a better actor than he thought. "You want some orange juice?"

"No thanks," was the quiet reply as Connor went to the cupboard to retrieve a glass. As he began to pour the juice, he turned toward his brother and nearly dropped the carton to the floor. Murphy smiled weakly at him but it wasn't his expression that shocked Connor, it was what his brother had done in the few moments since he had entered the room.

The photo album was shut and Murphy had moved it to the chair on his left, pushing it under the table to obstruct Connor's view. His sleeves were pulled down, covering not only his arms, but part of his hands as well. Murphy had even changed his sitting position and without a doubt, Connor knew he was trying to hide the blood stain on his pants.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Oh, uh…..sorry. I was just thinking that my sweatshirt looks a little big on you," Connor quickly lied with a gentle smile, hoping Murphy would believe him.

"You said I could borrow anything I wanted," Murphy responded in a near-challenge, wondering just how much Connor had seen. "I thought you meant it."

"I did mean it. Take whatever you want, you don't even have to ask," Connor said as he moved forward and placed the glass and juice carton on the table. He pulled out the chair perpendicular to Murphy's right side and sat down, letting the silence in the room take hold.

They sat quietly for a couple minutes, Connor drinking his juice and Murphy picking his nails, until the dark haired boy sheepishly asked, "Do you have any smaller size jeans? I only have this pair and the ones in your drawer are too big for me."

"You calling me fat, Murph?"

Murphy's head shot up and he stared wide-eyed at his brother, emphatically shaking his head. Connor tried to hide his smirk behind the juice glass but once his eyebrow rose, Murphy recognized the expression he'd drawn for years in his sketchpads. The face is six years older and more mature but every nuance is still the same…..the teasing glint in Connor's eye, a subtle trace of amusement in his grin and a heaping dose of brotherly love shining through.

"Yeah, you're calling me fat."

Murphy's emotions surged and he wasn't sure if he'd laugh or cry. It felt incredible to be treated like normal by a brother he barely remembers but at the same time, it hurts so much to not really know him. There are so many questions he wants to ask, so many answers Murphy needs. All he has to do is open his mouth and let his brother fill in some of the blanks, if only he could decide how to begin.

"Just you wait. Ma will fatten you up in no time," Connor promised with a slight laugh, leaning forward to glance down the hall toward Annabelle's bedroom. Seeing the door still closed, he quietly warned, "Just don't eat her bean casserole. She still can't cook that worth shit."

"That's because she uses the wrong type of beans."

Connor sat back and shook his head, eyeing his brother warily. "How the fuck do you know that?"

Shit. Murphy had answered without thinking. He couldn't explain that the woman he called "mom" for six years made the very same casserole, Connor would never understand. Murphy struggled for an excuse that would explain his sudden bean knowledge but before he could craft a worthy response, Annabelle exited her bedroom in a flurry of activity and made her way into the kitchen.

"I have to go to work for a couple hours, boys," Annabelle announced as she opened a drawer and withdrew a spoon. She reached for the prescription bottle on the counter and twisted it open, slowly walking toward the twins as she filled the spoon with the milky medication.

"Open up, luv," she instructed as she held the utensil in front of Murphy's face.

Murphy lowered his head and he stared at her through the fringe of his hair, his eyes almost a darker shade of blue as he defiantly shook his head.

"I don't have time for this, Murphy. The medicine is important, we talked about this last night. Remember?" Annabelle said, her voice sounding incredibly patient even as her youngest son glared at her. She moved the spoon closer to her son's face and gently added, "Now come on, it's not that bad."

He wondered what Annabelle would do if he refused to comply and he considered testing her limits, just to see what would happen. He almost said no again but the possibility of another seizure scared Murphy more than anything and after a moment of internal debate, the teenager gave in. Murphy scowled as he swallowed the bitter liquid and Annabelle returned the bottle to the counter before reaching for her purse.

"You make sure your brother eats, Connor. And if you boys go out, be back home by two. The headmaster from school is stopping by and Murphy needs to be here for that."

A car horn announced Sibeal's arrival to take her to work but Annabelle remained in place, her eyes slowly scanning Murphy's bruised face. She bent forward and looked him directly in the eye, her gaze steady but her eyes soft.

"I wish I could stay home with you, luv. But Connor will be here, all right?"

When Murphy didn't respond, when all her child did was look at her with a blank expression, she sighed heavily and turned her attention to her eldest.

"If Detective Jennings calls, ask him if he can postpone his visit until after supper. I want to be here when he talks with your brother," Annabelle instructed as she moved toward the door, propping it open with her foot as she glanced back at her children. "Murphy is due for his pain medication at 10, he gets two pills just like last night. And Connor, you call me at work if you need me."

The sound of tires on gravel announced their mother's exit and the twins sat quietly, neither boy breaking the silence for nearly two minutes.

"I don't need a fucking babysitter," Murphy angrily mumbled, vowing to lose Connor as soon as possible. One thing he doesn't want or need is a shadow watching his every move. "She talks about me like I'm not here. Like I need someone to take care of me or something."

Connor nodded in response, agreeing with his brother's observation while keenly aware of his mother's motivation.

"She's treating me like a little kid," Murphy continued, his voice a bit louder than before. "Like I'm…..like I'm….."

"Like you're ten," Connor finished knowingly, his voice soft and full of understanding beyond his age. "You have to be patient with her, Murph. It's hard for her to just let go of those lost years."

Murphy's resentment dissipated like a cloud of dust on a windy day as he considered his brother's words. Of course his ma would treat him like a little kid, she still thought of him as such. After all, she last saw him when he was ten. And it only made sense that she'd be overly protective, considering how Murphy had disappeared without a trace all those years ago.

"She's so afraid," Connor continued as gently as he could, his voice trembling with the same fears as their matriarch. "She's afraid you'll go away again. She's afraid you're hurt worse than she knows. And Murph, she's afraid you won't let her be your ma again."

Murphy chewed on his lip for a moment before deciding to be honest with his twin, no matter how painful it would be. "She wants that little boy from six years ago. You both do. But he doesn't exist anymore, he's gone. And Connor, I…..I don't know how to bring him back. It's like everything is wrong, everything I remember is fucked up and it doesn't make sense. And no matter what I do, I can't figure it out."

"That's when you need to talk to me. I'm your brother, I'll help you."

"But…..but what if you can't?" Murphy squeaked with a slight shrug of his shoulders, his eyes filling with bitter tears that he couldn't stop.

"But what if I can?" Connor responded as he leaned forward and placed his hand on Murphy's shoulder, gently squeezing. He'd been afraid to touch his brother for fear of hurting him but Murphy seemed to melt against his palm, almost as if he yearned for the tiniest display of affection. "Try me."

Murphy wiped at his face and shifted in his seat, pausing for a brief moment before reaching for the photo album. He set it on the table and ran his fingers over the leather cover before looking in his brother's direction, not quite meeting his eyes.

Connor sat back and waited patiently for Murphy to gather his courage and find his voice, hoping against hope that he could actually help his twin. Without a word spoken, Murphy opened the album and rapidly turned the pages, searching. When he found what he was looking for, when the pictures that had confused him were located, Murphy turned the book toward Connor and pointed at the images.

"This was our eighth birthday," Connor reported as he moved the album closer, smiling as he remembered that special day. "Ma got us that cool bike, the one in all these pictures. See?"

"It's wrong."

Now Connor was really confused. What the fuck is Murphy talking about? How could a bike be wrong?

"It's wrong, Connor," Murphy said emphatically, his voice weak with emotion and a hint of fear. "It's all fucking wrong."

Connor's eyes darted between his brother's face and their birthday pictures, completely lost as he surveyed the images. Nothing seemed amiss in any of the photos and both boys were all smiles as they sat in tandem on their new gift in the driveway.

"Don't you see? The trees are wrong," Murphy said, his index finger indicating the trees that were visible behind them in the pictures. "How could this be our birthday when the trees are wrong?"

Connor's brow furrowed as he narrowed his eyes to study the saplings. They were much smaller than they are now and just beginning to sprout leaves, a fresh green hue coloring the branches of every limb. "I don't understand. They look fine to me."

"No, they're wrong. The leaves should be changing colors, not just starting to bud."

Connor lifted his head and stared incredulously at his brother, his eyes slowly blinking as he watched Murphy rub his forehead. Holy fuck, how could Murphy be confused about this? How could he not know?

"When's our birthday, Murph?"

Murphy was suddenly afraid to answer his brother's question. Or more precisely, he was afraid of Connor's response.

"October 25," Murphy tentatively said, holding his breath as he waited for his twin's confirmation. But instead of Connor smiling and nodding, in place of him saying that date was correct, Connor's eyes filled with tears as he slowly shook his head.

"That's the day you disappeared."

No, that can't be correct. Murphy's birthday is October 25, he knows it. He remembers birthday cake and apple cider, pumpkins and presents that the big man smashed to bits. For his thirteenth birthday, he got a black eye and a split lip for breaking curfew to go to a haunted house. And strangely enough, Murphy remembers the crunching of leaves underfoot as the big man dragged him to the root cellar on that same day every year, the promise of a beating heavy in the air.

Connor recognized the turmoil plainly evident on his brother's face and he realized there was something he needed to show Murphy. He stood and walked across the room, opening the drawer their ma called the junk drawer. Everything in the free world ended up in that junk drawer but there was one thing in particular Connor sought. Resting on the very top were the items he needed and he took them in hand and returned to his seat, unfolding the weathered papers before placing them face-up in front of his brother.

The words "Missing Since Oct 25" instantly caught Murphy's attention and he bit his lip as his chin quivered uncontrollably. He thumbed through the fliers, each one reflecting a different childhood picture but listing the same disappearance date, and Connor quietly explained, "These are from the first year you were gone. We kept the originals."

Murphy began to visibly shake as he shifted through the pages, realizing the cruelty he had endured. Not only did the big man take away his real family and his memories, his name and his childhood…..he stripped away Murphy's date of birth. He took every fucking thing Murphy ever had.

"Connor," Murphy looked up as tears overflowed his eyes, feeling more lost and alone than ever before. "When's my birthday?"

"You don't have any idea, do you?" Connor asked sadly, hoping to God he was wrong.

Tears flowed freely down Murphy's face in long salty streaks as he shook his head, confirming his brother's fear.

"It's April 10," Connor whispered in a voice choked with emotion.

Murphy repeated the date over and over in his head, trying to commit it to memory. April 10, springtime not autumn. "I guess the trees weren't wrong," he said as his eyes drifted to the photo album, his vision blurry from reforming tears yet to fall. "My mind is so fucked up, Connor."

Before Connor could respond and dispute his brother's emotional declaration, the telephone on the wall began to ring. Both boys glanced in the direction of the sound but neither moved to answer it, the incessant shrill echoing in the small room.

"It's probably that detective," Murphy mumbled, motioning with his head toward the phone as he wiped at his face. "She'll be mad if you don't answer it."

Connor cringed, not missing the fact that Murphy failed to use the word 'ma.' Again. He stood up and moved toward the phone, clearing his throat as he picked up the receiver. Just as Murphy suspected, it was Detective Jennings. They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments before Connor relayed Annabelle's message but when he hung up the phone and turned back toward the table, Murphy was gone.

The creak of a floorboard above his head told Connor that his twin had returned to their bedroom and he ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he burst through the door, Connor was greeted by bits of paper everywhere. He looked around the room in shock, trying to figure out what the hell happened before realizing what the bits were.

Fucking hell, it's the fliers. Murphy tore them to shreds and threw them across the floor, the trail of scraps leading to the far side of his bed. Connor slowly walked forward as his heart pounded loudly in his chest, realizing his brother was sitting on the floor with his back to the mattress.

That's when Connor heard the ripping sounds, like pieces of cloth being pulled apart. Just as he rounded the edge of the bed, he caught sight of what his brother was doing. Connor couldn't move, he was too stunned to do anything but stare. He couldn't speak, his mouth opened but no sound came out. He could barely fucking breathe, the air was too heavy with emotion.

Murphy held Walter in his hands. Or more precisely, he held what was left of Walter in his hands. Walter's ears were on the floor along with his left arm and right foot, small pieces of his stuffing scattered among the rabbit debris that had been ripped off the toy.

Murphy looked up and locked eyes with his brother, his face beet red and streaked with tears. His pain was palpable, it lived and breathed and festered like a putrid wound, clawing at Murphy's psyche and demolishing what was left of that innocent ten year old boy from years earlier. He violently shook with emotion and in his eyes Connor saw the crushed spirit of the abused child within.

The dark haired boy appeared dazed before glancing around the floor in a near panic, suddenly realizing what he had done but not understanding why. But Connor understood. Murphy's pain had consumed him and it became intolerable, it grew into an entity he could no longer ignore. When he was faced with the reality of all that was taken from him, everything else paled by comparison and he lost control. In his anguish and grief, Murphy ripped apart the very thing from his past that actually meant something.

"Walter…..oh God Connor, what did I do?"

Murphy pulled what remained of Walter to his chest and he lowered his head, burying his face in the fur as he loudly sobbed. For the next hour, Connor held his brother in his arms and gently rocked him as he shed his own tears of pain. They cried together for all that was lost, for everything that was stolen from Murphy's youth and for the unimaginable cruelty suffered at the hands of a sadistic couple.

They hugged Walter between them as Murphy apologized over and over, his words in painful bursts as his voice trembled and cracked. Connor tried to reassure his twin as best he could, whispering that he was certain Walter could be fixed. And as the darker twin struggled to regain control, as Murphy's pain threatened to blaze back to life and consume him once more, the make-believe brother he had drawn for six years in a sketchbook was there. Connor was there.