A/N: Hello, my darling lurkers and readers! I'm trying to hold out my promise of updating weekly! Finals are DONE, so I have plenty of time to write! Just a warning, you may need a cocktail or two after reading this…and if you can, leave a comment below. Trigger warning: there are elements of alcohol abuse and a situation surrounding a miscarriage. Please read at your own discretion.

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Where I can't follow

Somewhere in the past, at the house in the country.

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Erik awoke to the distant tinkling of the grand piano, his dreams fading from his mind as he concentrated upon the melody. It was another melancholy song that did not match the brightness of the daylight, the ephemeral bits of sun that curled in from the bay window of his bedroom. Bruce's bed was on the other side, and he watched for a moment as his little brother still slept, confused as to why the piano hadn't woken him as well. They had both agreed that when mother started to play, she was not feeling well. And they'd promised each other to look after her; they had begun to worry after finding her limp in the garden two weeks ago…

"Bruce!" Erik called out, sliding his lanky form out from underneath the covers. "Bruce, Mother's playing again…come on! Wake up!" Erik padded over to the other side of the room, shaking his brother by the shoulder.

"Give me five more minutes," Bruce complained sleepily, pulling the covers over his head. Erik considered it for a moment, then began to shake him again. "She's playing that same song on the piano! And father doesn't come home until tonight. We have to take care of her, remember? We promised…"

Bruce let out a large yawn. "Okay, I'm getting up…" He slowly sat up, his dark hair mussed, his eyes squinted against the sunlight that drew shimmering pathways on the wooden floor. "Look at the floor, Erik…maybe you can draw something for me later? It looks like…like a bunch of paths all connected. Maybe they lead to another world."

Erik nodded solemnly, eyeing his drawing pad that sat on top of the dresser.

"Sure, I'll draw it later, if you want. But I was thinking we could get Mama outside, into the sunlight…maybe she'll be happier in the garden with us. What do you think?"

"Definitely," Bruce agreed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Okay, go wash up, otherwise I'm gonna beat you to it."

"Not a chance!" Erik laughed, whirling around to hurriedly make his way to the bathroom. There were loose tiles on the floor, but it was ultimately a breathtaking, spectacle of a room; turquoise tiling with bits of blue covered the walls and floor. The sink was rectangular and plugged up, but Erik did his best to drain some of the water before he washed his face. He stared at himself in the mirror; his long nose and golden eyes seemed to stick out from the rest. Erik sighed, running handfuls of water through his cropped black hair. "Will a girl even…like this?" He murmured to himself, running lather from the soap over the surface of his pale skin. Not the time to think about girls…you need to make mother happy. You can do it, you always get her to smile…you and Bruce, together…

Although there was a girl that had caught Erik's keen eye. She lived way down the lane, with huge fields of green and mossy trees covering the large distance between them. She always wore her blonde hair in braided and intricate buns, and had freckles that covered her cheeks and nose. Erik ran into her a few times at the edge of the property, fetching the mail for his father. She had been kind to him, asking him if he was having a good day – and truth be told, it had been miserable, for him so far…for Erik had overheard an argument between his father and mother. And it shattered the illusion that he'd so worked hard to build; the false narrative that mother was okay, just simply sick, for now…but his father had said otherwise.

Erik swallowed, gripping the sides of the sink as he stared at himself. The girl had smiled at him. Maybe she didn't mind the paleness of his skin, the awkwardness of his limbs. Maybe he might see her again today, when he went to greet father with Bruce at the front gate. But he pushed all thoughts of the blonde girl out of his mind as Bruce knocked on the bathroom door, realizing the mission – the burden that he had set upon himself and his brother. Making Mama laugh again.

Erik opened the door and smiled as Bruce walked into the bathroom sleepily.

"The stupid sink is still clogged," Erik called out as he walked past, "but if you jiggle the drain a bit, some of the water goes down." Bruce let out an irritated moan, as if this was the first in a long list of problems that would consist of their day.

It isn't wrong of him to be frustrated, Erik thought. He felt bad for a moment as he watched his little brother wash up, worry already etched into the lines on his forehead. Maybe I've put too much on him. Maybe this should have only been my burden to bear. But Erik knew he needed his brother, just as badly as he needed his mother to smile. The two were inseparable, spending most of their time together. Even when Erik curled up by the bay window to draw, Bruce would sit on the floor and talk to him about the latest book he'd read.

"Wait for me, I'm just about done," Bruce yawned, stretching his arms over his head. Erik stalled for a minute by the top of the grand staircase, his hand resting on the mahogany railing. As Bruce emerged from the bathroom, both brothers began their descent down the stairs, and with every step, the melancholy of the piano became louder. They made their way to the front room, where all curtains were closed, and a woman bent over an ebony grand piano, her dark tresses falling freely down her back. Erik approached her cautiously, not wanting to frighten her by their sudden presence in the room. "Mama?" He asked gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. "What are you playing? And why are the curtains closed?" Three empty bottles of liquor littered the top of the piano, their labels ripped off, and a single rocks glass sat filled halfway with diluted amber liquid.

"Oh!" Anastasia lifted her hands from the piano as soon as she heard her son's concerned voice. "Oh Erik, you…you caught me off guard, darling. The sun was hurting my eyes while I played, so I closed all the curtains," she sighed, lifting a hand to Erik's cheek. "Can we open them, Mama? It's so dark in here," Bruce added quickly, making eye contact with Erik for a split second. Anastasia shook her head, her eyes fluttering as she closed them. She picked up the rocks glass and sipped from it, her sons watching sadly as she fought against the burn in her throat. "No, that won't be necessary. You two go ahead and take the dogs out, I'll just be…here. There's a song I've been writing, and I must finish it."

"But Mama, you've been playing…all night, haven't you?" Erik asked carefully, eyeing the empty bottles of liquor, dulled with the darkness in the room. "Shouldn't we all go outside together and sit in the sun? You can watch Bruce and I throw the ball. That makes you happy, doesn't it?"

Anastasia threw her head back and laughed, downing the rest of her drink. "My sweet, lovely boys," she sang, striking a chord on the piano with her right hand. "Always wanting me near. You know, I've been feeling more creative lately…like my old self! Will one of you fetch a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen – it helps Mama to think, to write, to create! Will you be Mama's boy and get it, dear Bruce?"

Bruce ducked his head down, slowly nodding, as if he could not fight back against her words or disagree. He plodded out of the darkness and into the foyer, disappearing from sight. Anastasia sighed blissfully, turning her attention back to Erik.

"Mama is writing a song, dear Erik. It's called "The River calls out My Name." Would you like to hear it? Oh, I've been up all night playing it. The strange thing is that it never seems to end. Isn't that funny? A song that is infinite, that never has an ending? Oh, you'll love it my dear, I know you will. Let me see here…" She placed her long white fingers upon the piano, bending her head down as she began to play. Erik listened fearfully as the same circular melody floated from the piano, the same one she had been playing for days; except this one was more complex, layered with a deeper current of sadness, like a river of brokenness that flowed everlasting. It grew louder within his ears, travelling through his blood and into his stitched up heart. He shook his head slowly, not able to bear another moment of her lamenting song, not wanting to believe that she was the epitome of misery; for he needed her to be temporarily sick, not becoming worse by the day…

He had never felt so out of control.

"Mama…please stop playing," Erik cried out, unable to lessen the emotion that rose in his chest and into his throat. He swallowed back bile as his eyes brimmed with tears, just in time for Bruce to enter back into the room carrying a full bottle of whiskey. Anastasia's hands fell from the piano keys, and she smiled with her eyes closed, her breath rancid with alcohol. "Bruce, my darling, bring me the bottle."

"No, Bruce," Erik placed himself in between them, shaking his head incessantly. "Go put it back in the kitchen." Anastasia stood up suddenly, wavering from the amount of drink she had consumed. "Erik, dear, your mother is fine. I just need another drink! It helps me feel better, you see…it helps drown my demons! They cannot swim in this river that I've made. Don't you see, my precious boys? They'll drown before they can get to me!" She laughed, adjusting her dark colored skirts as she moved toward Bruce, her hands outstretched. With one swift move, Erik knocked the bottle from Bruce's shaking hands and it smashed onto the wooden floor; an explosion of glass shards mixed with splashes of venomous liquid. Anastasia cried out as if she had been hurt, falling to her knees in the shards of glass. "What have you done?" She shrieked, raking through the glass with her hands. She looked up at Erik, her green eyes wild with anger. "Erik. Go get me the vodka. We can do this all day. And if you refuse, I will simply walk to the neighbors and get what I need. Now be a good boy, and fetch the clear bottle for me…and Bruce, clean up this mess!"

"Mama," Bruce said tearfully, "you're hands are bleeding."

Anastasia looked down at her hands; tiny shards of glass stuck out from the skin on her palms, and she cried out, shaking them violently as if to rid herself of the embedded glass. "Mama, no, let me help you," Erik gasped, grabbing onto both of her wrists. Bruce began to cry as he looked down upon them, and Erik's heart throbbed painfully, wishing his brother was somewhere beautiful, somewhere safe, instead of here.

"I can get the glass out, don't worry, Mama, don't worry! Let's go into the kitchen where the light is better. And Bruce will get you a drink, won't you Bruce?" Erik said, plastering a smile upon his pallid face. "Everything will be all right, you'll see, Mama…come, let's walk…let's get you your drink!"

Bruce spun around, still in tears, almost sprinting out into the foyer and down the hallway to the kitchen. Erik led his mother by her wrists, with bright red blood seeping out from her wounds, dribbling onto the wooden floor; a pathway into hell, Erik thought.

Anastasia began to sing lightly as Erik pulled her along; a disturbed etching that was the state of her mind. She let out a few laughs along the way as the sunlight from the foyer touched her skin, shining off the greasy black hair that fell in long tresses all the way down her back.

"So bright," she commented as Erik directed her into the kitchen, settling her upon a chair that faced the countertop. "So very ethereal…oh, it reminds me of heaven. What might it be like?" Erik rested her bleeding hands on the countertop, directing Bruce to get the bottle from the cabinet. He threw open the doors under the sink and pulled out his father's surgical kit – the one from the war that was for emergencies only. He knew the anger his father might have upon finding out that it had been touched…but Erik was willing to face punishment to fix the blood that seeped from his mother's hands.

Bruce shakily poured some vodka into a glass, and set it in front of Anastasia. "Can you bring it to my lips, sweet Bruce? My hands seem to be covered in glass!" She laughed, nodding to her youngest son whose eyes were still puffy from crying. Bruce took the glass, his hand shaking, and brought it to her lips. She closed her eyes against the burn, smiling widely once she had swallowed.

"Oh, you're both so perfect, so precious…I'll never let any harm come to you…my two darling boys. You're both the spitting image of me, isn't that lovely? Whenever we look in a mirror, we'll see each other, we'll see all of our love combined…oh, isn't it beautiful…isn't it indescribable, our love?"

"Yes, Mama," Erik answered absentmindedly; he must focus on pulling the glass from her skin. His spidery fingers were the only thing on his body that were agile and articulate, and thanked God for giving him such a gift. One by one, Erik pulled each shard from her hand with a pair of silver forceps, staunching the flow of her blood with small bits of gauze. Bruce continued to bring the drink to her lips, and she began to sing again, her voice rising up into the sunlight while her two sons danced back and forth to the rhythm of her hysteria; Erik pulling the shards methodically from her flesh, and Bruce continuing the raising of her glass, cleansing her parched, full lips.

Once all of the glass had been removed, Erik slowly wrapped her hands up, tying each one with enough room for swelling. Bruce stood beside Anastasia, his hand shaking with the now empty glass; yet their mother was smiling down at both of them, pulling her top lip back to reveal her teeth.

"Oh, my boys take care of me," she sang. "Shall we go out into the garden, now? I feel better, I really do…and Bruce, take that bottle with you, I will need it! Oh, and your father comes home tonight…should we make him a bouquet? Should we pick magnolias and put them in a vase? Strange," she commented, her voice falling into a whisper. "Strange that we are so very much like flowers. We grow, we are beautiful for a while…yet we begin to wilt, and then…we die. If only I could capture such a flower in my music…if only I could hold a fleeting moment in the palm of my hand."

Erik noticed tears forming in the corners of Bruce's eyes, again.

"Yes Mama, let's go out into the garden," Erik replied firmly, wiping some sweat from his brow, his hand brushing against his bangs that were a bit too long. Anastasia lifted herself from the chair with the grace of a queen, curtsying to Bruce as she passed by him, grabbing him by one hand and the bottle with the other. Erik waited for the shuddering click of the back door, and once he was completely alone, he began to sob. His hands were stained with her blood, and he tried to shake the image of her digging through the shattered bottle with eager fingers, as if she could undo what had already been done.

He did not understand her mood swings, or the melancholy that plagued her, with bouts of hysteric laughter and bliss. Erik walked over to the cabinet that was near the stove, pulling a bottle from it's assorted depths. He pried the cork from the top of the wine and drank deeply, willing it to fill the emptiness inside of him that was her eyes, and his brother's tears.

When would father be home? He needed him, then; the strength of his arms, the steel of resolve in his eyes. Erik would explain everything to him; he must, for the sake of his mother. For the drinking had become wildly out of control – first it had been a couple nights a week, and now it was all night and all day…she was never herself, and she continued to play that circular, horrible melody that reeked of rot and disease. Erik had read in the bible that demons could possess people, and he wondered if somewhere along the way, his mother's body had been taken over by some demented entity. Why should her sons have to put a glass to her lips, feeding her own blackened addiction? Why should he have to save her from herself…and could he even hold that power, could he even do the unimaginable – help her go back to the way things were, before her miscarriage?

Erik remembered the crying. Her crying. There were so many nights of fleeting joy, so many moments spent out in the garden where she would let him and Bruce stick their ears to her engorged stomach. They could feel the movements, the kicks of their sister inside of her. Even his father had joined them in the garden, asking Anastasia about names – Rhea, they had decided upon – and Bruce had made a tiny diadem of roses to hang over her painted white crib; to show her the beauty that could exist in the world. But one night there had been screaming. His mother's delicate, elegant voice distorted into a siren's horrified calling. He and Bruce had fled to her bedroom door, and they saw their father kneeling at the foot of the bed, his arms covered in blood. Erik had never seen such a vacant look in anyone's eyes until that night. And he knew, when he saw his father's eyes, that Rhea was gone.

Erik had even tried praying by the doorway – lot's of people prayed in the bible and received miracles. Please don't leave, little sister, my beautiful Rhea. Please don't go where I can't follow. But the screaming grew louder, mixed with anguish and something chaotic – something that sounded out of control. Erik's father had shaken his head at him, motioning for him to close the door, and Erik obeyed him silently, with tears streaming down his face.

Bruce had been right behind him, but Erik had blocked his view, knowing that the scene in the bedroom was not meant for a child's eyes. He had accidently seen it, true, but it was something he could never erase from his mind – when his mother became drunkenly hysteric, he thought of that night, of her screaming…of the wailing that marked the death of his sister before she had even been born.

Now, he gripped the bottle of wine, taking another pull from it's sweet depths. He could see his mother and Bruce from the kitchen window, his mother drinking directly from the bottle as Bruce fashioned her a circlet of colored roses. He was horrified with his own dulled senses, with the voice that whispered in the back of his mind that his mother might meet the same fate as her dead little girl. That she might one day go somewhere, murmuring the blurred words of her circular song, listening to a blind river that seemed to call out her name. And she would go to a place where he could not help heal her self-inflicted wounds. A place where she left the glass in the flesh of her hands, where there was nothing to staunch the blood and the heartbreak, no crown of flowers that would rest upon her head.

A place where he undoubtedly could not follow.

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A/N: It broke my heart to write this. I hope it helps you better understand how traumatized this family is…Leave a comment and/or emotions and thoughts…I love reading them. And as always, thank you so very much for reading. Love, L.