Morning
The mansion was never quiet in the morning.
The coffee maker hummed from the kitchen, mixed with Simon’s loud scream when he discovered someone had eaten his cheese toast. Johnny – the most suspicious – was leaning casually against the door, gnawing on a sandwich that everyone knew he hadn’t made himself.
Bruce, who had just woken up, was rummaging through the liquor cabinet as if it were a medicine cabinet. Max sat on the second-floor balcony, still wearing his white shirt and slacks, smoking slowly, looking at the clouds – as if he had nothing to do with the chaos below. Wesley had been up early, jogging around the mansion and was now cleaning his gun on the living room table, looking like an undercover cop planning a family kidnapping.
Charles – the invisible center of the house – sat in the study, by the large window, a cup of tea beside him, the sunlight illuminating his dark brown hair and his face that was no longer responsive below the waist. He could hear everything, even their heartbeats if he wanted to. But Charles didn’t intervene. Not right away, at least.
Nicholas was in the kitchen, trying to figure out how to use the toaster without burning out the socket like last time. He was the gentlest kid in the house, but he was also the one who could be easily manipulated – especially when Simon started to suggest playing cards, and Johnny held a beer can out to him like an irresistible invitation.
Raven walked by, wearing someone’s shirt – maybe Charles, maybe Johnny, no one dared to ask – and glared at Simon when he made a half-hearted pick-up line. She quickened her pace when Johnny started to run after her, but stopped when Nicholas smiled and handed her a cup of coffee. She took it, without saying anything, and continued on her way.
Wesley whistled. Simon tapped the table. Johnny slipped while chasing Bruce’s dog. The growls, screams, and laughter echoed as if this were not a broken family, but a chaotic symphony – where each person played a different instrument but still followed the same rhythm: the beat of a bygone youth, of lives patched together again, in an old mansion that had yet to collapse.