o. prologue
{ SMOTHER THE SUN }
°º~§~º°

            HE HAD BEEN UP FOR A WHILE, just staring blankly at his hands, at the fine, blond hairs and the thin, elegant fingers. You have a pianist's hands, his mother had always said, her bright brown eyes smiling up at him. He knew his mother liked that he reminded her of him, of the man who had stolen her heart with every press of a piano key and every rose he tucked behind her ear. Of the man who had died before his time. And he liked that he reminded her of him, because it meant that he would always have something that his mother loved.

When he looked in the mirror, he didn't always see himself. He saw his father. His father's jaw and his father's nose and his father's smile. Never him. Never that young, naive boy who thought he had everything he could ever want for; a pretty house, a large room, and a reminder that he would always have his mother's love because he would always look like his father.

But despite that ( despite always having something that connected him to his father ) he didn't often think of him. Not really. There was always the underlying feeling of detachment when he thought about him. Why should he feel loyalty towards a man he had never met?

Instead, he thought about his mother. How she liked his eyes or his hair or his anything. He liked that it pleased her. She was his everything, the only one he had ever truly had. Because in a house as big as his, with halls as long and rooms as large, only the shadows made for good company.

So caught up in his own thoughts, he almost missed the ringing of the doorbell, an absent sound that rolled right past his ears.

He removed himself from the armchair and made his way to front of the house, bare feet padding against the hardwood floors. When he found himself standing in front of the door, he peaked out from the small hatch and saw two policewomen, one short and the other tall.

The sudden appearance of these two women made him confused. Surely his mother hadn't done anything wrong. And it couldn't have been him; the last time he went into town all he had done was purchase a few things from the market.

Deciding to open up the door, he unlocked it and stepped back to allow it to swing open. He shivered as cold wind rushed into the house to greet him. He turned his eyes to unlikely visitors.

"Hello. How may I help you?" He asked, voice politely questioning.

"Uh, yes—" it was the taller one who spoke, her hands fumbling with a hat she had strangely positioned in front of her body— "would you mind answering a few of our questions?"

"Of course. But can we do it inside, it's a little chilly out here," he said, peering past them, at the great oaks that swayed side to side in the harsh wind.

As if only now noticing the weather and the fact that he was wearing his pyjamas, the two quickly nodded and allowed him to show them to the sitting room, each taking a seat on the black leather Chesterfield. He left them to heat up some tea and prepare a few snacks.

When he returned to the sitting room, he saw that the two women were seated close together — closer than when he had left — and were whispering quietly to themselves. They hadn't seemed to notice his arrival, and since he couldn't hear anything without getting any closer, he cleared his throat to get their attention.

As he began to pour their tea, only stopping to ask if they liked milk and how many sugars he should add, he ignored the pair of eyes that tracked his movements.

"You wanted to ask me a few questions?" He asked after watching them indulge in the biscuits laid out of the tray he had brought in.

The shorter one gave a sound of acknowledgment, her left hand wiping at the stray crumbs on her lips in a way that made his nose wrinkle slightly in disgust. Neither seemed to catch it as the taller one fumbled for a pen and notepad, and the smaller pinched a small folded piece of paper from her pant pocket. They turned their gaze towards him and he nodded once for them to begin.

The questions were given in waves. First, they asked for his name and birthday. Then, inquired about his relationship with his mother, if they were close or not. When they asked this, he immediately knew this visit involved her in some way. And it made him want to shout at them, to demand they give him answers. But instead, he replied with a curt "we love each other". They didn't seem happy with the response but wisely moved on. They asked about his father and their home, how long they had lived there and where they had lived previously. He gave replies as equally short as the before.

By the time they were finished, he had begun to fidget. A swirl of his teaspoon, a bounce of his left knee. He struggled with keeping himself in check. Every instinct in him wanted to throttle the two women sat in front of him, eating his food and drinking his tea and not telling him what the fuck had happened to his mother.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Swiftly, he turned his thoughts away from that dark place inside of him and allowed the tension to leave his body. A beatific smile bloomed upon his lips.

"Yes, of course. But could we please hurry this meeting up, my mother should be arriving home soon."

They flinch at the mention of her. What had happened to his mother? His eyes narrowed. If they didn't start telling him what happened—

"Actually, Mr. Cartwright, we wanted to talk to you about that," the smaller one said.

A little of his control slipped. "About what, exactly?"

They startled. It appeared his tone offset the pretty smile of his face.

"When you're mother was driving home, she... she got into an accident." He gripped his teacup tightly. "It was bad, very bad." Tighter. "Not many would have been able to survive it." Tighter. "And unfortunately... unfortunately she didn't." Crack. His porcelain teacup shattered in his grip. And in his anger didn't even notice as red started to coat his palms.

"I'm sorry, what? Do you mean..." he looked at them — at the two women who came to tell him this in his own house, after dawdling and waiting for so long to tell him. His glare could not have been more deadly. "My mother is... dead? In a car crash? You mean to tell me that my mother is dead! That she died in a car crash! How dare you come in here, refuse to tell me of my mother's death, sit idly by as I stew in worry, interrogate me on shit that doesn't even—get out." His voice, which had been loud and angry and hot like a wildfire, had died. And was replaced with a chill that could smother the sun.

"Sorry?"

"I said. Get out."

"Are you sure, sir, we should probably—"

"Did you not hear me, you stupid bitch? I said for you to get the fuck out of my house!"

And like mice, they scuttled out the door, leaving him to sit there as crimson dripped slowly onto the carpet.

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{ authors note }: did i do well? i'm not very sure i did. i'm not the best at building up tension and this is supposed to have it written all over. ugh sometimes i hate starting new stories.