• Folded and bent, Dante sat numbly on the staircase, staring blankly into the distance. Blindly he searched, unseeing as he grasped the sands of his thoughts. Words fell into his mind, leaping from his memories. Make a gallery of your photographs. Show the world your muse. Funny, he didn’t really want to show the world his muse. Not when it was his past.


    Raised high, cutting through the sky like a mountain, the hand was held, before it sliced through the air with an inaudible scream. Flesh hitting flesh, and a young boy crumpled to the ground, clutching his cheek and releasing a whimper.


    What a lovely muse, he thought bitterly to himself.

    Then again, there was Charlie...


    It was midnight, the witching hour, dead in the night, the snacking hour. Creeping down the stairs, silent as a shadow, Dante listened with a faint smile as he heard scuffling and stumbling behind him. Silently he padded into the kitchen, not pausing in the slightest as he heard a faint giggle that came from suspiciously close by. Opening the refridgerator, he pulled out ham slices, cheese, lettuce and a jar of chocolate frosting. Going to the pantry, he pulled out a loaf of bread along with a box of graham crackers. “Would you like to eat with me?” he asked quietly.

    Peering from around the corner, Charlie frowned at him. “How’d you know I was there?” he half-whispered.

    “I have eyes in the back of my head,” Dante answered coolly, smiling to himself as he prepared his sandwich.

    “Like momma?” Charlie asked, awe-struck.

    “Exactly like hers. Except mine are invisible.”

    Mouth open and creating a silent ‘O’, Charlie crept closer to his adopted brother, staring intently at the back of his head. Ignoring the stare, Dante prepared two graham cracker-frosting sandwiches, laid them on a plate, and handed them to Charlie. “Sit at the table,” he told him, shepherding him into the eating nook.

    For the next twenty minutes they ate, Charlie’s six year old legs swinging happily at a foot above the floor, while Dante’s eighteen year old legs were stretched out and narrowly avoiding being kicked. When Charlie finished, Dante fetched him a glass of warm milk, while unappetizing to him, seemed to hit the spot for Charlie. Head in palm, his bright sea-foam eyes started to close as he nodded off.

    Silently cleaning up, Dante returned to his brother and gently took his fragile body in his arms. Sighing, Charlie settled into his older brother’s arms, smiling to himself as he slept. Placing him in his bed that was decorated with race cars and flags, Dante quietly left his room, smiling to himself. Funny little kid...


    Charlie, the energetic child who ran amok and laughed as he went, making friends and creating laughter. He had few enemies; it was impossible to dislike the child. His dimpled smile swept everyone away, and the sincerity of his devoted love was enough to make even the hardest heart melt. Just like he had made Dante’s heart crack and soften, warming itself to the glow that was Charlie in all his glory.


    Charlie stood, grinning from ear to ear, in front of Dante, hands on his hips and chest puffed out. “Okay, Charlie, show me how old you are,” Dante told him, and Charlie proudly held up all six fingers. Snapping a shot, Dante grinned to himself. “How old is Hilary?” Ten fingers were splayed before him, captured by the camera.

    “How old am I?” This time, Charlie plopped down on the ground, tugged off his bright red shoes and white socks and rolled on his back. Sticking his feet up in the air, Charlie stuck eight fingers in the air, showing Dante’s eighteen years. Another click of the camera, and Dante asked Charlie with a grin, “How old do you think Daddy is?”

    For a moment Charlie pondered, chubby little face deep in thought. Unnoticed, Dante snapped another picture. Then, face brightening, Charlie dragged Hilary and Sunshine to where he was standing, sternly telling them, “Stay!” Soon after, Hilary’s friend Lilia, their mother and their father were dragged with them. Idea forming, Dante directed them to huddle together, feet perfectly visible. In his piping little voice, Charlie ordered all of them to hold up ten fingers, with the exception of his father, who was to hold up two. After a few minor adjustments, Dante took the picture.

    “What’s this for?” Justin asked, wide-set eyes bemused.

    “I asked Charlie how old he thought you were,” Dante explained with a faint smile.

    “Oh?” Justin asked, turning to his son. “And how old do you think I am?”

    “One hundred and twelve!” Charlie proclaimed happily to his thirty-nine year old
    father.


    Smiling, Dante stood up and stretched, fondly thinking of his tiny little brother. Then, stock still as the idea blasted into his brain like a bullet, Dante realized that Charlie was his inspiration. The bright eyed, dimpled, duck-fluff blonde boy was the reason for his photography. Heck, Charlie was the reason he was still living in that house. It was Charlie who had convinced him to give this specific family a chance, without saying a word. Charlie who adored him like he was a deity, Charlie who bragged to all his friends about his “awesome” big brother. Charlie who did not mind when Dante needed a moment to grieve for his mother or to grind his teeth and wish ill upon his father who pushed her to the brink. And innocent little Charlie who made him never want to feel that hatred again, made him want to be pure, just like him.

    Charlie, his six year old muse.