Jack reaches out...
The handle is chilly.
There is no need to open his eyes.
He knows what he’ll find there.
Gray is in this drawer.
His brother, Gray.
His brother, who tried to murder him.
He opens his eyes, and tugs on the cold silvery handle.
Two lines above, running the length of the room.
A lolling red arch. Columns.
Too much space, and far too little.
The dirty, clean bricks are all around him.
It feels like a subway station down here.
The handle slides the drawer out like a charm, initiating a sequence of scratching sounds in the back of the catch.
Jack looks down.
Gray is lying on the table of the drawer.
The slightly thicker chin and neck, the pinched expression of a little boy who’d just found a firefly.
The hatred etched in lines across the marginally heavy forehead.
And the same brown hair.
There is something in his hands.
Jack touches his brother’s strong fingers, prying them from the long metal object they grip so tightly where they cross against Gray’s chest.
An infostamp, tarnished, with burn marks everywhere in rough smudges of black.
There is a blue post-it attached.
“So this speaks for itself, huh?” Jack muses aloud, turning the infostamp up to the lights and twisting it on.
An image of his mother, older.
That pant suit again. A string of lovely pearls.
Now she is in a red robe, with many others in similar robes.
Now there is a man.
His father. Red robes.
His mother. His father.