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Cleo’s earrings survived the fire.
He remembers seeing them on her, a simple crystalline teardrop shape that shouldn’t have made her eyes stand out more, but did. He remembers buying them for her on the night they moved into their new house, as a sort of housewarming gift. He remembers the smile she gave him, and how she never took them off. He remembers seeing baby Cub mesmerized by how they glimmered in the sunlight. He remembers baby Scar trying to reach for them (always the sticky fingers, that one).
He remembers seeing them on her the night she died. How she slipped them off before going to bed. Etho had picked them up on a whim, spinning them over his fingers, still feeling the residual warmth on them. He fell asleep on the couch, watching some old samurai movie, the earrings still in his hand.
He remembers hearing Cub crying before hearing her scream. He rushed up the stairs, entering the nursery. He’d told Cub earlier that he couldn’t share the crib with his brother, that he was getting too old, but there he was, the gate down and cub trying to console his baby brother while looking fearfully up at the ceiling. He’d kneeled next to the crib, trying to see what was wrong with the baby, but Cub kept staring up at the ceiling and wailing. It wasn’t until the first drop hit Scar on the forehead that he finally looked up. He wishes he hadn’t. He wishes he had simply taken the kids to his room and let them sleep on the bed. He wishes none of it happened at all.
He remembers Cleo’s fair skin looking gaunt and sickly, her green eyes bulging as she lay contorted on the ceiling. Her fiery red hair was consumed by sudden flames appearing out of nowhere, as a scarlet red cut began from one side of her face down to her abdomen. His children's screaming had been what snapped him out of it. He picked them both up as fast as he possibly could and told Cub to run, and not look back. He tried returning to the nursery, but by the time he’d turned, the entire thing had been engulfed in flames, with Cleo barely visible amongst the smoke and blaze.
He remembers the relief he felt, watching Cub cradling baby scar, tears running down his face. Cub had held out a chubby hand, revealing Cleo's earrings. He took them gingerly in his hands, and crouched down to pick his kids up and carry them to the curb. The nursery’s window blasted with more flames by the time he reached the end of the driveway, fire alarms sounding off in the distance.
He remembers the firemen dousing the house with their hoses, half of the upper floor of the house ruined by that point. He hears the police sirens arrive next, and feels Cub hiding behind his knees and Scar playing with the zipper of his jacket. He sees his neighbors arrive at the scene, half asleep, trying to figure out what happened, where's Cleo, why is there blood on his baby’s forehead, when did it start, where is Cleo?
Cub remembers seeing his dad gun down a crusty looking guy outside the roadhouse. He remembers the blood seeping into the pavement below. He remembers the shifty man in the trenchcoat looking at his dad appraisingly. He remembers a blonde woman dragging him back inside, where another woman is crouched near Scar and holding a small baby. He remembers the look on his father’s face as he was pulled away, shock and horror, mixed with understanding.
He remembers the sweater he was wearing when his mother died. It was a simple, blue knit sweater with a spaceship on it (he eventually turns it into an odd sort of patch). The ceiling on his childhood bedroom had been covered in those glow in the dark stars, and he’d spend nights staring up at them with his mom, asking the name of each star. His favorite was Polaris, at the tail end of Ursa Minor. Cleo used to call him his “little bear cub”, and “no one gets between a momma bear and her cub”.
He remembers waiting in motel rooms and distant relatives' houses while his dad “went out” during the earlier years. Whenever he asked where he went, he’d either get dismissed or some noncommittal answer. At some point, he thought he must have some other family, he spent more time “out” than he did with them. And when he was with them, he was too tired or frustrated to really play with them. It didn’t matter too much anyways, Scar was a funny, albeit needy baby.
He remembers the gritty feeling of the rock salt as he packed it into the shells, the chill of holy water he slipped into inconspicuous flasks. His father had quietly slipped his aviator jacket around his shoulders while he shivered in the cemetery, hearing his dad hit the earth with a sharp shovel while he stood on the lookout, a heavy shotgun in his arms. He saw the pride on his father’s face when he correctly determined the type of ghost they were dealing with, not knowing it would soon be replaced with a look of disappointment when he froze up in fear later that night.
He remembers hiding the truth from Scar, too curious for his own good at too young an age. “Why is dad angry at you” hidden in well meaning questions about their night. Scar asking where dad was, why he always gave his meals to Scar, why Cub stayed up late every time their dad went out. He usually gave a long winding story about how dad was “working to make the world a safer place”, if only to have Scar get bored after a few seconds of the explanation. It worked well the first couple of times, but after a while the empty boxes of ammunition and the bandages on his and his father were too much to ignore.
He remembers the scowl on Etho’s face when he said he would rather stay back this time, keep researching the case. His father wasn’t one to get violent, but Cub at that moment wishes he would so that he wouldn’t have to forever hear the disdain in his father’s voice from then on. Cub doesn’t think he’s “too good for hunting”, he thinks he’s a kid who shouldn’t be holding guns and breaking and entering into stranger’s houses in the middle of the night. Scar doesn’t get it yet.
Scar remembers the first movie he ever saw, a VHS Cub had picked up on one of those nights that he had to leave with his dad while they thought he was asleep. He’d learned the words to its entirety before he could write, reciting them around Cub the same way great poets recited sonnets. He remembers telling Cub that he was Mufasa because he’s the older brother, and he was Scar, the younger and cooler brother. Cub rolled his eyes and went back to his nerdy book.
He remembers sitting awkwardly during recess, trying to make friends like the other kids were. Cub’s jeans fit him too loosely around his waist, the shirt one size too large for his scrawnier form. His lunch consisted of a gas station sandwich and a small lumpy tangerine. He’d somehow managed to convince the kids around him to trade lunches with him, scaling all the way to getting a kids thermos full of homemade chicken noodle soup. From then on, he realized all he had to do to make people like him was talk, talk, talk. They can’t send you to detention if you can make yourself look innocent, they can’t pick fights on you if they see you as the weak, scrawny class clown, they can’t send you to the precinct if you were just defending yourself (that last one didn’t always work).
He remembers staying up late, pretending to be asleep while his dad and Cub went out on their little trips. The tv was entertaining enough, and the kind bearded man on the screen taught him quite a bit on how landscapes worked and brought a calm sense of wonder about the world with him. He’d begged for some art supplies for Christmas, but the best Cub could do was a small set of watercolor pencils and a small brush he’d nicked from the hardware store. It was the greatest thing he’d ever gotten.
He remembers finding a small pair of earrings inside his dad’s wallet. He didn’t have a way to wear them, but he’d seen the movies, all he needed was a needle, an apple and an ice cube. What’s the worst that could happen? Thankfully, Cub had been there to help him with the process and the light swelling afterwards. His dad hadn’t commented on them at first, just glancing at them and squinting, before returning to the leatherbound journal he always kept with him. Scar took that as approval on the new look, despite Cub’s worries.
He remembers the crack of the bottle as he hit it on his first try, the heavy, congratulatory pat on his back from his dad, Cub letting out a whoop from where he sat in the shade. He’d stood out there for hours, hitting bottles and cans, until the light from the car’s headlights were the only thing illuminating his targets and his dad was telling him to get back into the car, they had another long night on the road and they should get to the motel before early noon if they wanted to scope out the area.
He remembers the first time (of many) that his brother and father would get into fights; throwing words at each other, Cub berating his dad for not taking care of Scar and according to him, a deadbeat, his father responding with equal vitriol and telling him to leave if he’s so tired already. He’s 11 years old, not understanding why his dad is treating his 14 year old son like an adult, or why Cub is taking it with a grim, determined look on his face. He wants to mediate, but only lets out weak protests and hugs the cat plush tightly against his chest, trying not to cry. It isn’t until Cub hears him sniffle that he shuts up, taking scar to the bathroom with him and patching his scrapes from the hunt they’d been on earlier that day that he begins to calm down. He asks Cub why they’re fighting, but he only gives him one of his noncommittal answers. Scar learns to stop asking.