Philip tried not to check in on his family too often, he really did–John had said it would only make it worse for himself, and after- after he had unwittingly stumbled onto his own funeral, he was inclined to believe him.
But it was hard. Hard to stay away, when he knew he could see them, and he wanted to see them, desperately. He wanted to see his mother smile, and he wanted to sing with her again, like they had done when he had been younger. He wanted to sit in the kitchen with Angie and have their father's low voice drift in from the sitting-room when he read to their younger siblings in the evening, and he wanted to play their silly little game where dad would sneak them some wine when mom wasn't looking and they would all pretend they were doing something forbidden, and that mom didn't know exactly what they were doing, anyway.
God, he thought, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, the last time his youngest brother Will had asked him to play with him, he had been in a hurry and promised him next time, and- and there wasn't going to be a next time now, and he was only four, he would surely forget about him-
He needed to see them.
Philip summoned a Mirror to check on the kids–they were playing some kind of game in the garden, and he couldn't help but smile, even though his vision swam with tears. How had he ever been too busy to play with them? He couldn't imagine anything more important than that had ever been going on in his life.
Next, he changed the scene to show his mother; she was in the kitchen with his father, preparing tea as he sat and read something over, and it would have been a comforting, familiar image if it wasn't for the tension in the room, so obvious Philip could tell it was there even without hearing what they were talking about. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't resist–he unmuted the scene.
"-don't think it's healthy," mom said, and she sounded so different to what Philip was used to, he shrunk back from the Mirror.
When his mother spoke, it was like the sun broke through the clouds; it was warm, and gentle, and her words sounded melodic like a song even when she wasn't singing, but now- her voice was… tired. Exhausted. Hollowed out, lacking any melody, and so quiet, and Philip just wanted to embrace her and tell her he was fine, it would be fine, she didn't need to be sad because of him.
Dad hummed a noncommittal sound and didn't look up, and mom sighed and raised a hand to massage her forehead, didn't turn to face him.
"Alexander," she said, but this time, his father didn't even so much as make a sound to communicate he'd heard her, and Philip- Philip beat down a sudden surge of heat in his chest, burning hot anger, because how could he ignore her? He had never done that before, and right now was not the time to start.
"Alexander," she repeated, more insistent, an edge of something in her voice, a hint of sharpness. "Your daughter has been vegetating in her bed for three weeks now. We need to do something."
What? Three weeks? Philip had been dead for three weeks? And- and Angie? What about Angie, what was she doing? Three weeks?
"She's grieving," he responded, finally, gaze fixed to his papers. It was just as toneless as mom's voice, and he hated it.
Philip had done that to them.
He had been a stupid child, and he had ripped away his parent's happiness and hurt his siblings, when he should have listened to his father when he told him not to do it, when his mother had spent years teaching all of them that there was always a better way than resorting to violence, but no. Philip had to go ahead and be a stupid fucking idiot.
His mother braced herself against the counter she stood in front of and bowed her head, took a moment to gather herself.
"Not leaving her bed for three weeks is not just grieving, refusing to eat has nothing to do with grieving."
Dad ripped his eyes away from his documents and stared at mom's hunched back. "She hasn't been eating?"
"No, she hasn't, and you would know that if you weren't doing this again! She's shutting herself away just like you are-"
"Well, what do you want me to do, Eliza? Drag her out of her bedroom by her hair and force the food down her throat? We can't make her do anything-"
"We could at least try!" she exclaimed and whirled around, fixed him with a glare so broken it had to cut into him like pieces of shattered glass. "She's your daughter, and you could at least pretend to care-"
"Excuse me?" he said and slammed the parchment in his hand down to the tabletop, pushed his chair back and leaned heavily over the table; with the change in position, Philip had a way better view of his face, and the building fury in his chest at how he treated his mother died down to glowing embers when he saw the bags under his eyes, dark like bruises, the paleness of his skin–he looked unwell, sick, and his eyes had a film to them as though he was feverish.
"I will not sit here and let myself be accused of not loving my children! She needs time, just as we need time-"
"She needs help-"
Philip needed them to stop yelling, before the children heard.
As if sensing his plea, they both fell silent. His father hung his head, a tremor took hold of his shoulders, and the first tear hit the polished wood of the table with a barely audible tap.
"I can't do this. I can't- not again." He raised his head, looked up at mom from red-rimmed eyes, pleading. "We can't do this. I- we need to leave. We can't stay in this house, Betsey, we need to go-"
"I know," she said, so faint, and brought a trembling hand up to her mouth to stifle a sob. "I know."
Philip couldn't take more. He waved the Mirror away, not strong enough to bring himself to look at his sister, his Angie, his best friend who couldn't even get out of bed because of Philip's mistakes, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, buried his face in them, and wished John would come back from wherever he had disappeared to already.
Dad talked to him a lot.
(Philip had clung to John and sobbed into his shirt until he was little more than a puddle on the floor for long enough the man had eventually resorted to humming gentle melodies to calm him the first time he had heard dad address him by name.)
These days–Philip said that like he had any idea how much time had passed–dad spent a lot of his time in his office, as usual, and the rest of his day, he would spend outside in the new garden of the new house that Philip would never get to see in person.
And when he sat in the garden, he talked. He talked about the new house, the new neighbourhood, their new routines, in the beginning. He said it was quiet, and that he thought Philip would have liked it there, and Philip had to agree; he would have liked it there. He would have liked it anywhere as long as his family was there.
Dad also cried a lot. Out in the garden, in his office, it didn't matter. He cried, and he apologised to Philip, over and over and over, and Philip wanted to tell him so bad, so bad the words itched to burst out from under his skin, that it wasn't his fault. Dad had told him not to do it. Philip had gone to his uncle, because he'd known dad wouldn't give him his pistols.
Uncle hadn't had any such qualms.
Philip rarely ever saw his parents together anymore, and it pinched at the silent space in his chest where his heartbeat had once been.
They used to be so happy.
Sometimes, when Angie had practised playing piano, before–they danced, clumsy and lost in each other, and dad used to sweep mom up and twirl her around until she couldn't breathe because she was laughing so hard, and they would tell whoever was unfortunate enough to be near at that moment the story of how they met for the hundredth time, and Philip had always thought that was what love had to look like.
Now, the house lay silent. No music, even though they had taken the piano with them when they moved. He hadn't heard mom laugh since before he'd died. She smiled, sometimes, at his younger siblings, but it was like something was missing from it.
She never smiled at dad anymore.
That was one of the reasons Philip found himself watching dad most. To see her like that, splintered down the middle and with hollow places where there should be none, it tore at him. Besides, where mom was, Angie wouldn't be far, and Angie-
Angie wasn't well, and it was all his fault.
She had been his best friend, his partner in crime and closest confidant, all throughout their childhood and beyond, but now- she wasn't the same. She was changed, something had broken inside her head; her eyes, once so full of life and mischief and pure wit, the same eyes he had, the ones they had gotten from their father–they were like cracked marbles.
Mom had to dress her every morning, and sometimes, on bad days, she even had to feed her.
Angie spent most of her time sitting by the window and watching the birds out in the garden for hours on end. Before, she had liked to draw (she had sketched birds sometimes, and Philip wanted to hope she watched them now because a part of her still remembered), she'd been a skillful pianist, better than Philip had ever been, and she had thrived around other people, she had enjoyed dancing, she had always invented new games for their younger siblings to play, she had bonked Philip on the head every time he'd made a mistake, called him a stupid idiot, and then helped him fix it–and now she was reduced to nothing more than a shell. (A̶n̶d̶ ̶P̶h̶i̶l̶i̶p̶ ̶h̶a̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶i̶t̶,̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶t̶c̶h̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶n̶'̶t̶,̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶o̶n̶d̶e̶r̶f̶u̶l̶,̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶t̶y̶,̶ ̶s̶t̶u̶b̶b̶o̶r̶n̶,̶ ̶m̶a̶g̶n̶i̶f̶i̶c̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶s̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶d̶ ̶a̶w̶a̶y̶ ̶i̶n̶t̶o̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶h̶a̶d̶o̶w̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶s̶e̶l̶f̶,̶ ̶a̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶j̶o̶i̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶e̶c̶h̶o̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶y̶m̶p̶h̶o̶n̶y̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶o̶n̶c̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶u̶l̶t̶,̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶u̶l̶t̶,̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶u̶l̶t̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶o̶n̶g̶ ̶e̶n̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶l̶o̶o̶k̶.̶)
Dad took her out into the garden with him on occasion. He tried to talk to her, tried to converse like they'd used to, quick and playful and familiar, and she would look back at him from huge eyes like she hadn't understood a word of what he'd said, and dad would take her hand in his, and kiss her knuckles, and cry.
Philip cried with him every time.
That was the point where John intervened and made him let go of the Mirror, and just sat with him until his tears had dried.
He liked to tell him stories about dad he had never heard before, and it didn't take long for Philip to realise that John had known a very different man than he had.
Philip loved the stories. It was nice to imagine his father like John painted him, around Philip's age, too ambitious for his own good, reckless and brave and genius and loud, when all he could see of him in real life was a man who wandered between two fixed points in silent grief and couldn't even look his own wife in the eyes.
He really didn't know what he would have done if John hadn't been there to help him through everything.
It was just a little odd how he sometimes slipped up and referred to Philip's father as my Alexander.