Between the soles of his trainers his picks up a small pebble and worries it from foot to foot, concentrating on balancing it for as long as he can. The park is quiet around him, no children or people for distraction but he has a good view of the place, from the playground itself to the left to the dark woods and the start of the walking trails to the right. Way beyond, right at the back as far as he can see, are the public toilets and carpark- a whole world away.

‘It’s too loud out there with all of those children,’ Papa had complained when they first moved here, his voice floating out of the kitchen window. Matthew had been in the room above with Alfred, their toys a scattered mess between them that made Matthew upset when they couldn’t be easily pulled apart. Alfred always was too grabby, ‘Come summer time it will be awful with that park right there.’

‘No it won’t,’ Daddy had said, ‘Because the house will be quiet- both the boys will be out there the whole time.’

Matthew’s out here now. And Daddy was right, it’s always quiet at home these days.

There are many other benches in the park but this one is Matthew’s favourite. The reason, he thinks, is obvious. It’s close enough to home for him to run in if he needs to and it’s also in the perfect spot to see the entire playground without actually being there. He can see the slides and the cool zipwire, and half of the climbing nets before they’re swallowed up by trees. The bench is safely nestled between two worlds, home and beyond, a part of neither but belonging to both like a bridge. Matthew can easily slip away unnoticed from one to the other to stay in the middle.

The perfect resting place.

There are no lamps outside, and the night is thick. Between puddles of yellow, the dark pressed against their edges, Matthew sits and waits, and remembers.

He remembers his parents fighting, horrible things said behind closed doors because they had thought that Matthew and Alfred were outside. Remembers Alfred shifting awkwardly by the swings, refusing for the first time Matthew’s request for him to come and play without the new friends he’d made. Remembers feeling angry and alone and not liking being so, drawn to his bench to hug his knees and wait for his absence to be noticed. Hoping that it would happen soon because it was getting cold and he was tired. Papa was supposed to be making a creamy salmon pasta, Matthew’s favourite, but the smell of it never came.

One minute. Two.

Half an hour. More.

His man had found him there waiting, with his careful smile and strong hands; a silver tongue which led Matthew away. To the woods, through the trees- a promise unfulfilled. A pain so sharp and blinding Matthew still couldn’t think of it, even as the years passed by and the paint on their house cracked, flaked off.

Matthew will sit here, forever, on this bench, and wait to be found.

Maybe, he thinks to himself, this is because his bench is where he was most of himself. Or, where he spent most of his time. He would love to ask someone, but Daddy never catches his eye no matter how many times Matthew tries, his fingers pressed to the glass of the kitchen window- a tap tap tap before his bench draws him back. Papa walks past without stopping, his silver hair scraped back, and Alfred... Matthew recognises Alfred the least. There is something in his brother’s eye that scares him and Matthew wonders if he would have looked that different if he had been allowed to grow.

Mostly, he wonders why he feels louder amongst them all now that he is silenced.

He knows exactly how he feels now.

He waits. Maybe they’ll join him one day. He can tell them then.

He doesn’t mind waiting.

Day 26

Out in the garden, armed with a spade and a ferocious scowl to match, England was angrily staring holes into one of the kitchen windows. Normally, that sort of glare was reserved for America’s ill timed pranks or whenever one of his uncouth brothers came to call. In this instance, England’s ire was directed at his co-parent and most hated enemy of all time: France. Normally, this wouldn’t be considered unusual, but the British man found himself pacified whenever he was in the presence of his newest ward, you. But then again, you weren’t at his side, but at France’s beck and call.

Gah! It must be so horrible trying to stomach just how many ingredients and instructions had to go into making such light, airy meals that tasted good, not that England was ever going to admit that, not even upon pain of death and—

“Yo, pops!” England found himself straightening from his slouched posture to find that his former charge was waving around a bag of crisps, the noise making France and their youngest addition to the family look up in curiosity. Knowing that his dreary disposition would make you worry, England focused all of his energy on trying to make America stop acting like a child a hundredth of his age. “You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm! Come here and eat some of your lame off brand chips!”

“If I was to have an aneurysm, I highly doubt adding in oil and starch is going to help. Also—” England stalked towards the North American twins, not at all minding that he was tracking in mud on his clean floors. “—they’re called crisps, you tyke.”

As America guffawed in laughter, Canada offered England a glass of water alongside a wedge of lemon. Offering the more mild-mannered sibling his thanks, England took a sip.

And then promptly choked. 

“Dad?” Canada rose from the wicker chair, a concerned expression on his face. Despite the clear intent to help his surrogate father, Canada was gently rebuffed when England waved him away. 

America, that great big tyke who obviously had no lost love for England, continued to snigger in the background. 

“Apologies, Canada.” England took a slow sip of his water to calm the burning in his throat and to quell the coughs that threatened to explode from his chest. “But your fool of a father has breathed his last!”

And with such an ominous threat, England darted into the kitchen. 

America was the first to speak up. 

“You owe me twenty bucks.”

“Oh, shut up. Dad hasn’t done anything yet.”

.

.

.

It happened in an instant. 

One second you were listening to a heartracing tale of one of France’s earlier exploits as a youth, when you were grabbed by the waist and hustled out of the kitchen. You were given a fraction of a second to deposit the bowl of batter in your hands into the kitchen counter before you were whisked away into the gardens. France, for the most part, looked put out, but blew you a kiss and a wink when you gave him a pleading look. 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” France rolled his eyes, “or so they say. But I must say, Angleterre, desperation doesn’t look good on you!”

Out in the garden, England brushed off any offensive stains on your person, clicking his tongue when he saw stray bits of flour coating your clothing. 

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be the bigger person here because someone has to. What do you say? You help me out in the garden today?”

From behind, England, America piped up, his hand grasping a wad of crumpled bills. “Did he say something about being the bigger person in this situation?”

You nodded, confused… only to groan in exasperation as America turned to Canada, a jeering look on his face. 

“I told ya! Gimme!”

You were later told that Canada lost the last of his American money to America.

.

.

.

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.