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So I was writing this story, but now I'm stuck. I'd appreciate constructive criticism, and maybe some suggestions for how to continue and how it could improve.

"The mid-afternoon sun shines through the drawing room window, bathing the room in a golden-yellowish glow. Calm has settled over the house today; not the usual tense, anxious quiet before a storm, but genuine, peaceful calm. Even the cats that inhabit the backyard have ceased their high-pitched, maddening cacophony for one precious afternoon of peace. I glance across the room at Billy, who has fallen asleep on the sofa. He looks content and untroubled, entirely different from when he is awake. Suddenly, the Mistress calls. Her voice pierces the silence like a knife, shattering the peaceful afternoon. I look at Billy; I don’t want to wake him, but I must. Sighing, I gently touch his shoulder.
“Billy. Hey, Billy, wake up.” He opens his eyes slowly.
“She wants me?” He sounds resigned. I nod. He sighs.
“Is she angry?”
“I don’t know. But you’d better hurry.”

______________________________________________________________________

I nod and make my way to the tower door and begin climbing the winding stairs to her room. I pause briefly at the door, a slight anxiety gnawing at my stomach. I hope she isn’t angry. With a feeling of foreboding, I raise my hand and knock.
“Billy, is that you?!”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“About time. Matthew, let him in.”
The door opens slightly, just enough for me to slip inside.
“Stop,” she commands. I obey and turn toward her voice. She is seated on her throne, wrapped in elborate shawls and long strands of beads. Her eyes are covered by a veil, which she lifts before speaking.
“Well.”
She speaks the word cooly, letting its icy tone linger in the ringing silence. She looks directly into my eyes, unmoving, unblinking.
“Y-yes, Mistress?”
“Don’t stutter at me, boy. And look at me when I’m talking to you.”
I turn my gaze toward hers.
“I’m sure you’re aware that today is Monday.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Which means, of course, that the car needs washing. Go and fetch Phillippe. And when you get back, tell Gerard the rosebushes need trimming. They’re getting completely out of hand again.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
My hand touches the doorknob, prepared to exit.
“Mistress?”
I turn back, surprised to hear Matthew speak. The Mistress regards him coldly.
“Yes?”
“Um, could I...I mean, could I maybe...go with him?”
She glares irritably at him for a moment.
“Oh, very well. But I want you back here the instant you return, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Together, we slip out the heavy oak door and down the tower stairs. As is our custom, we climb down the vines along the side of the house instead of going out the door. Normally this fills me with the strange and exhilarating combination of elation at being up so high and fear of falling, but today I can think only of the Mistress, feel only pain, anger, and nausea in equal parts. Close to the bottom, Matthew jumps down onto the greenhouse roof. I am about to do the same, but my entire body is shaking and I lose my grip, sprawling on my back in the wet grass. Matthew jumps down and runs to me.
“Billy, are you all right?!”
I don’t answer. He helps me to my feet, takes my hand. His eyes, wide with concern, bore holes into mine.
“What...” he begins, softer this time. The word hangs in the air between us like a bridge, waiting to be crossed. As I look at him, a sob escapes my throat.
“She...makes...me...sick.” he reaches up and gently wipes a tear from my eye.
“It’s...” he swallows. “It’s...that day, isn’t it?”
I nod, biting my lip. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, but I push him away because I know that if I allow him to touch me, I will cry. And I don’t want to cry. Not yet.

______________________________________________________________________

Flashback: February 18, 1990--Hoboken, New Jersey
A young man stands alone in the small, dimly lit kitchen of his New Jersey apartment. He can see Manhattan across the river, rising above the dirty water in stately, glittering elegance, a sharp contrast to the narrow, potholed streets he sees below him.
A small boy enters the kitchen, and the man turns to smile at him.
“I was just about to come and wake you. Are you packed?”
The boy looks at him, eyes shining with tears.
“Please, Daddy. I’m scared. I want to stay here.”
“I know, son. But we can’t. You’ll like England, I promise. You can meet your brother.”
“I don’t want to meet anyone. I...I just want mom.” The boy lowers his head, tears falling from his eyes and staining the worn brown carpet. The man pulls his son closer, hands gently stroking the boy’s hair in a loving caress.
“I know, Billy,” he says softly, gazing hypnotically at Manhattan in the distance. “I know.”

______________________________________________________________________

It is quiet tonight. Nothing stirs, not even the usual parade of cats in the garden outside my window. It is peaceful; the kind of fragile, unnerving peace that gives the impression something is about to happen.
There is a knock at my door, and it opens slowly, tentatively.
“Gerard?” It is Matthew.
“Yes?”
“She...uh...she needs you to bring her breakfast in tomorrow instead of Billy. She wanted me to tell you that.” He twists his fingers together nervously as he always does around me. I don’t like it. It makes me anxious.
“Okay. Thank you.” He nods and departs quickly. I turn back to my window, watching the moon set over the rooftops in the distance. I drift slowly into sleep, unconsciously bracing myself for tomorrow.
_____________________________________________________________________

I am awakened early in the morning by her calling for me. I do not open my eyes. I don’t know what time it is. I know only that every muscle in my body aches, and all I want is to lose myself once again in the soft sanctuary of sleep. She calls me again, and I slowly drag myself from my bed. I feel as though my limbs are moving through wet cement. As I stumble across my bedroom, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror beside my closet. There are dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, and my cheeks are stained with tears. I do not want to see myself like this. I turn away and close my eyes, tears leaking from under my eyelashes. No, I tell myself firmly. Don’t cry. I force my eyes open and climb the three flights of stairs up to her room. Matthew is standing outside the door, probably sent by the Mistress to wait for me. He looks at me, eyes deep with concern, and hugs me.
“Billy...”
I reach up and gently stroke his hair.
“Shh. I’m okay.”
He releases me slightly, keeping his hands on my shoulders.
“Are you sure?”
“Billy, are you there? Stop talking, both of you, and come here!”
“Yes, Mistress.”
We enter the room together to find her sitting on her throne, glaring at us.
“Matthew, come here. Billy, if you make me wait again I shall have to beat you.”
Wordlessly, Matthew hurries to her side. I remain where I am, very anxious to leave. As though sensing my thoughts, she glares pointedly at me before speaking.
“Now then. Billy, Anthony is doing something else for me, so I need you to do the grocery shopping this week. Can you do this?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“You’d better. You will go straight to town and come straight back, do you understand? This will take you less than an hour, or I shall have your head.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good. Now off with you.”
“Mistress?”
“Yes, Matthew?”
“May I go with him?”
“You may not.” She notices me lingering by the door. “What did I tell you? Go!”
The road to town is familiar, and its mundane rhythm along with the cool morning air relaxes me. I look around and realize that I am over a mile away from her house for the first time in over a month. Outside, where she cannot see me. I could run now, run and never turn back. But where would I go? Home. New Jersey. But there is nothing for me there. My mother is gone, and so is my father. I had no friends there and I have no friends now. It matters to no one where I am or whether I live or die. I am trapped in this place by the meaninglessness of my own existance.

I return home almost two hours later. Gerard meets me at the door, and I know I am in trouble.
“Finally. Is everything all right?
I nod. “How angry is she?”
He winces. That’s all I need. I push past him and break into a run as I near the first flight of stairs.
When I reach her room, the door is pulled open immediately by one of her guards. His name escapes me--Evan, Kevin, Devin, something like that. He is gruff and emotionless, like all of the guards. Like I imagine the guards in Nazi death camps.
The Mistress motions for him to leave, then fixes her gaze on me.
“Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry, Mistress.”
“I asked you a question, you stupid boy. Oh well, I supposed it doesn’t really matter.”
She looks at the guard standing behind her and gestures toward a partially hidden door at the back of the room. I feel myself tense, knowing what is about to happen. She comes down from her throne and leads me by the arm through the door. Once inside, she roughly removes my shirt. I don’t try to resist her. I know I will need the energy later. I hear the crack of her whip a split second before intense pain radiates through my body. I don’t have to look to know she’s broken the skin.
The second blow hurts more than the first, the third more than the second, until I am on my knees, unable to feel individual blows; only a haze of pain dominating every fiber of my being. Eventually I am numb--I cannot see, feel, or hear anything, and I hardly notice when I lose consciousness.

I am awakened by Gerard’s and Anthony’s voices. I can only hear parts of their conversation: “Is he...”
“No, he’s just...”
“Do you think he can...”
I do not know how much time has passed. When I open my eyes the Mistress is gone and Anthony is kneeling beside me, his hand lightly cradling my cheek. When he notices that I am awake, he quickly removes it.
“Billy?”
I push myself up until I am sitting, working against the intense pain in every part of my body. Gerard’s face comes into focus beside Anthony’s.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his face exactly matching Anthony’s concerned expression.
“How long...” I cannot finish my sentence.
“Almost all day.”
“What time is it?”
“Six-thirty. Do you think you can walk?”
I nod, and they help me to stand and walk downstairs to my bedroom. Before departing, Gerard gives me one last concerned look.
“Billy, are you going to be okay? Do you want anything?”
I shake my head and give the answer we all give to this question. “No. I just want to sleep.”
As I enter my room, I notice my reflection for the second time that day. My face is pale, and there is a cut above my left eye. That’s strange--I don’t remember her hitting me there. I hardly remember anything from the time I woke up until now. I turn away and collapse onto my bed, sobbing until I fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
______________________________________________________________________

Billy is sleeping when I enter the room. I sit beside him and wonder if I should wake him. I want to talk to him, but he’s probably tired. I gently touch his cheek--it feels hot, and he shows no sign of knowing anyone is there. There are dried tears marking his face, and a deep cut above his eye. It’s hard to look at my brother like this and know that I can do nothing to help.
I think about the first few months after he and our father moved here. He was thirteen, and I was eleven. He didn’t show me much interest, but I found him intriguing. I was fascinated by his American accent. He looked so much like me, and yet he was different: he was almost two years older than I and about two inches shorter, and he carried himself with a kind of subtle, delicate confidence that I envied and knew I would never have. He had lived more places in the last two years than I had been in my entire life. And then, once we grew more comfortable with each other, he told me stories. Stories about the the places he’d lived, things he’d seen, and most often, our father. He’d tell me other stories too, things he made up. He had such a facility with words that he could spin stories out of thin air, and often I couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking. He was amazing to be around--so vibrant in such a subtle way.
And then there was the Mistress. My mother, but I never called her that. She was a formidable presence even then. She never liked Billy much, and everyone knew it. I certainly knew it, but I never thought she’d hurt him. At least, not until my twelfth birthday. My father had taken me to town that morning, having asked if Billy or I wanted to come with him. Billy had said no, but I’d agreed because it occurred to me that I hadn’t been to town in almost a month. We’d returned a few hours later, and I had gone into the room that Billy and I shared to find him lying on his bed, half asleep, a deep gash in his arm and finger marks around his neck. Startled, I’d woken him and asked what had happened. He had looked at me fearfully without speaking, and when I looked in his eyes I knew. I knew she had hurt him then, and I knew she had hurt him beofre.
I had been beside myself, angry that she had done this to my brother and convinced that someone had to tell our father. But Billy had told me no, he’d be okay, it wasn’t worth it, and I had trusted him. Every time I see Billy, hollow, empty, his very self buried if not dead, I regret my silence. But now I can do nothing but watch my brother sleep and hope that some day, everything will be better.

______________________________________________________________________

Flashback: October 15, 1999--Manchester, England
Two boys sit huddled together in the corner of an old cellar. Both of them are crying. The older boy hugs the younger one with his left arm, while his right hangs awkwardly from his shoulder, broken and useless.
“It’s all right,” he whispers. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”
The younger looks at him, eyes wide and pleading.
“No. You have to tell him, Billy. Please, it isn’t worth this.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not, Billy?”
“Look. He’s happy here, okay? Do you know how much that means to me?”
“But you’re not safe here. If he knew--”
“But he doesn’t. I can’t tell him, and don’t you either. Matthew, you have to promise me. Please. Don’t tell him.”
“Billy, she is hurting you! What are you going to do about your arm? He’ll notice, and then what will you say?”
“I don’t know, Matthew! Please, just...” he shakes his head and cries harder. Neither one of them says anything more. They continue holding each other, against the pain, trying their hardest to hold on and support each other through another day.
_____________________________________________________________________

I look down at Billy’s sleeping form and realize that he hasn’t stirred the entire time I’ve been watching him. What if he’s dead? I push the thought away firmly, but it still sends me into a panic and before I can stop myself I’m shaking him wildly, half-screaming “Billy!”
He opens his eyes, and pain immediately registers on his face.
“Matthew? Matthew, oh my God, stop! you’re hurting me!”
I drop him like hot metal, and he buries his face in his pillow and sobs.
“Matthew, help me...please...”
“Billy...honey...it’s all right, I...”
“It hurts, Matthew. It hurts so bad, and I’m so scared, and...and I just want my daddy...”
I’m crying by this point. I have no idea what to do. I want to hug him, but I’m afraid of hurting him, so I take his hands and gently stroke his fingers until they stop shaking. He stops crying and looks at me almost pleadingly.
“How long can you stay?”
“All night. Anthony’s with her.”
He gives me a small smile and squeezes my hand. I gently brush his hair from his face.
“Billy?”
“Yes?”
“Will you tell me a story?”
He doesn’t answer, but his look is as clear as if he had. He knows I’m trying to make him feel better, and I know it’s a pathetic attempt. I sigh and lower my hand from his brow.
“I’m sorry.”
He gently kisses my hand.
“Matthew...do you ever think...I mean, do you ever wonder...if things had been different...”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but I know what he’s talking about. I’m not sure I know what to say to that.
“Billy...”
“Sometimes...sometimes I wonder if there was anything I could have done.”
“You can’t do that. You’re just hurting yourself.”
He moves over slightly, creating a space beside him. I lie down so that we’re close together, the side of his face resting on my chest.
“I can feel your heartbeat,” he says after a moment. “You’re alive.”
I gently stroke his face, and my fingers accidentally brush the cut above his eye. He flinches. I quickly remove my hand.
“Billy?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you remember your mother?”
He’s quiet for a few moments.
“Not really. Mostly I remember her face...and her voice. Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night I imagine she’s there, holding me and telling me everything’s going to be all right.”
“Do you remember her name?”
He shakes his head ruefully.
“When I was ten I asked dad to tell me ten things about her--one for each year that I’d been alive.”
“And did he?”
“Not until later. The night...” He trails off.
“The night he died?” I whisper. He nods. I study him for a moment.
“Billy?”
“Hmm?”
“Could you tell me what happened...that night?”
______________________________________________________________________

Flashback: September 18, 2000: Manchester, England
A young man lies in a creaky, victorian bed, almost swallowed up by its vastness. A teenage boy sits beside him, holding his hands tightly as though anchoring him to the world.
“Billy,” the man says softly, breaking the silence that swirls around them like a poisonous fog.
“Dad?” The boy abruptly turns his head toward his father as if afraid to believe he is speaking.
“Billy, I have...I can tell you...about your mother.” The boy’s eyes widen.
“Really?” The man nods.
“Yes. I...I’ve put it off long enough.”
“Dad, you don’t have to--”
“Shh, Billy. Number one: she loved being outside. She always wanted to...to have you on top of the highest mountain she could find, so that would be the first thing you ever saw...” He drifts off, looking dreamily at the ceiling.
“Number two?” The boy prompts.
“Number two: she couldn’t cook. She burned everything, including water.” The boy laughs.
“So do you.” The man laughs too, then looks pained and continues.
“Number three: she could sing. She had such a beautiful voice--like yours. She would be so happy if she knew you could sing.” He squeezes his son’s hand before continuing.
“Number four: she was very compassionate. Like you.” The boy smiles. The man pauses slightly before continuing.
“Number five: she was afraid of heights--like you.” The boy laughs again.
“I am not.” The man smiles.
“Of course not. Silly me. Number six: she could run faster than anyone I had ever met.”
“Like you. And Matthew.”
“Matthew more than I. Number seven: she played the violin. It was so beautiful...” The boy looks intrigued.
“Is that why I love them so much?”
“Probably. She always played for you when you were a baby. Number eight: she loved poetry. Every night before she put you to bed, she’d read you her favorite poems.”
“Like Matthew.”
“Yes, I think she would have liked Matthew. It’s a shame she didn’t live to see him.”
“If she had lived, he wouldn’t exist.”
“Now you’re trying to confuse me, you little smart a**. Number nine: she hated being short. She always wanted you to be tall.” The boy smiles.
“She’d be disappointed.” The man takes his son’s hands in his and looks deep into his eyes.
“She would never be disappointed, Billy. No one could ever be disappointed in you.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I know, son. I love you too...Billy?”
“Dad?”
“Sing for me, Billy. Let me hear your voice...one last time.” The boy looks stricken as his eyes fill with tears.
“Daddy, no.”
“Billy, please. Calm down.” The man takes his son’s hands and looks him in the eye. “I want you to promise me...promise me you’ll go on. Don’t let this ruin you.”
“Dad--”
“Shh, Billy. Listen. I love you more than you could ever know. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever had the pleasure to spend time with. And I want it to stay that way...even after I’m gone. Can you do that?” The boy looks at his father, pleading in his emerald green eyes.
“Daddy, please! Don’t--” The door creaks open and a woman enters the room. She is tall, with a strong, predatory, almost snakelike quality about her. The boy freezes midsentence and looks up at her. She puts a hand on his shoulder, letting her long, red nails dig into his flesh. Her sympathetic frown looks more like a sneer and sends shivers down his spine. He turns away, but she quickly raises her hand to his cheek, turning his face toward her as she speaks.
“Billy, come with me. You don’t need to be here now.” He looks up at her, hatred burning in his eyes.
“Let me go.” The woman drops any pretense of patience.
“Come with me,” she hisses, dragging him harshly from the room. The door closes with a cold, difinitive snap, as if to say, the end.
______________________________________________________________________

By the end of his story, tears are streaming down Billy’s face and he can hardly force the words from his mouth. I’m holding his hands in mine, and as I gently caress his small, delicate fingers, I feel guilty for asking this of him. It was awful for me, but even at the time I knew it must have been much worse for Billy. I can’t imagine how it must have felt--losing his only remaining parent, who he had not been separated from since he was two years old.
It’s odd--I’ve always thought of him as tough, the one who taught me how to climb the huge willow tree in the yard, who assured me that there was nothing to be afraid of at night. But now it is me holding his hands in mine, caressing his cheek, telling him not to cry, everything will be all right. Only, it won’t. Our father will never come back, and neither will his mother. And as long as we are kept here, none of us will ever be all right again."

So yeah, it's kinda long. Sorry about that. I'd appreciate your thoughts on it though. mrgreen