Dane
By the time Dane made it up the stairs to his office he was sweating from the workout, and trembling from the memories. He never dredged up those memories, not even with Chris, though they often went unspoken. The brothers could catch eyes and know. But still, to talk about them, to reference. To mention loss. To make it real again.
Images flashed in his mind, fragments of memories—smiling, laughter, warmth in his chest, in his arms. A sense of belonging…but always, always shadowed by the dark. The screams, thuds, spitting rage, the bruises.
For a moment he was lost in the day when he'd been ten and broken. Sitting on the floor of his closet, trembling, just like he was now, jumping every time the screaming of his parents reached him through the wall. Then the thud, thud, thud, broken by screams, and pleading. And he'd just sat there . . .
Dane leaned his elbows on his desk and held his head as shudders wracked his body.
