My Broken Bond, Their Unending Pain

ong silences broken only by the distant strains of a cello or the quiet rustle of turning sheet music. They were often away, chasing inspiration, p

When I was eight, a group of older kids at school decided I was an easy target. They' d corner me after c

c notes across the playground. Tears streamed down my

es, usually so bright, darkened with anger when he saw my tear-streaked face. H

smaller, but his rage was a tangible thing. He fought them. He got

ar just shrugged. He looked at me, his bruised face cracking into a small, lopsided smile. "Anything for you, Clara-belle," he'd

One night, a storm raged, and I was terrified of the thunder. He crept into my bed, wrapping his strong arms around me. "Don't worry, little

g pillars in a world that often f

erything

oustic chamber they were experimenting with, a t

in the swirling grief. Edgar, sixteen, held my hand, his grip crushing, as if he could physically shield me from the pain. "W

een my anchor. For

en Fay

hift. Faye, with her wide, vulnerable eyes, her tales of a difficult orphanage, became their new focus.

ing to Edgar once. "She can handle things

's sheltering arms in the thunderstorm. Had they forgotten

dside for two nights, a tiny, worried sentinel, sponging his forehead, bringing him water, humming the lullabies

a look I hadn't seen directed at me in years. It was as if my

ade me homeless, both physically and emotionally. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth. They w

h my favorite ice cream, sat with me for hours, and just listened. He' d even punched the wall when I cried about how stupi

warmth of his arm around me, the shared laughter, the fierce pr

cident, but in the slow, agonizing erosion of neglect and misplaced affection. They weren't just emotionally abandoning me; they were emotionally dead to me. The

ds still throbbed, but the pain was a dull whisper now. I had mourned them once, at my parents' funeral. Now, I mourned them again