The rain stopped and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds once more. Its rays beat upon our backs, drying our drenched body and soul. I was still holding on to him, knowing how fragile he was- knowing the wall he deliberately constructed to keep others out was nothing more than a perverse manifestation of the innate need to protect himself. And because I know, I could not let go. In a way, I was weak as well, for it was not only him that needed salvation.

I recalled looking up to receive the grace beaming down from an iridescent circle of rainbow, its shifting colors so heartbreakingly beautiful in their simplicity. Have you ever seen a rainbow in its full glory? The theorized seven colors so distinct and yet melting into one another before your eyes? That was the astounding beauty that visited me then, blessing me with that one appearance which I know would never be replicated in another time or space again.

He extricated himself from me, having awakened from his sleep. I thought he would maybe smile awkwardly at his atypical display of emotions and we could just sit on the damp ground and talk. Though my head was spinning with the onset of a fever from being soaked to the bones, I wanted to just talk. I remembered the conversations we had when we were kids- the spiritual imminence our souls shared and I yearned to return to that stage, where innocence is like the wildflowers by the roadside, stretching for acres and acres- abundant, pretty and belonging to all of us, no matter how many times they are trampled upon or marred by the fumes emitting from the exhaust pipes of passing vehicles.

The wildflowers, they will still stand straight and tall and their happiness will never be daunted as they continue to nod to the tune of the breeze- their vibrant colors never fading away with rain.

I looked at him then, tilting my head to one side expectantly and then, I felt crushed like never before. My heart leapt in my throat once before it settled down to a strangled struggle. His expression was hostile- still entrenched in his indifference and once again, the wall that I thought was torn down, was erected in the blink of an eye.

I wanted to reach for him again, now I knew, I had perhaps lost him forever to himself. Paralyzed by my disappointment, I was rooted to where I was as I watched him numbly as he begun his funeral.

With his unprotected hands, he started digging slowly and purposefully into a soft mushy spot near her grave. His face was devoid of all emotions again and his voice, a gentle, dull drone, hypnotized me and flashed terrible images before my mind’s eyes as it recounted. He spoke, detached from the protagonist’s story he was unveiling now for me to hear.

"He barely turned nine when he met his brother for the first time after they separated for eleven months and 25 days. That was one of the few days he was allowed out of the attic which became his entire world as fate twisted into a sharp corner too sudden for him to brace himself for. The attic was cobwebbed and dusty; dark and reeking of mould. The windows were permanently locked and layered over with stubborn grime that the rain could not wash way. Air could only enter from underneath the door or a vent on top. It was stuffy and hot in summer; cruel and harsh in winter. In one lonely corner was his bed with the too thin mattress and his splintering table and chair.

His father had brought him, all dressed up in a neat suit, to the lawyer’s office where his parents signed the papers that would separate them and take away his brother and his mother. What could he do? He could only scream as his father grabbed him away. But his brother was too shrewd. His brother secretly passed him a slip of paper which became his most prized possession for on the paper wrote his brother’s address and telephone number. He memorized it and then swallowed it down for fear of discovery and that induced a stomachache for a couple of days later. But it was all right. It was a negligible price to pay for the ability to write to his brother. His nanny secretly brought him pens and paper so he could write and his brother would reply to his nanny’s address. Each time after he read his brother’s reply, he would swallow it, internalize it into himself, or so he stupidly believed."

He continued digging and I continued watching; listening. I kept all his letters with me, until a fire burned one of our crumbling houses down. My father had sent someone to commit that vile act of arson which, though did not kill us, destroyed the pieces of papers with that precious handwriting that I treasured the most. But he had stopped writing to me when he turned eleven. And I wrote many letters back but received no replies. Yet I never stopped writing, until the day my father died and I lost track of him.

"One cold wintry day, when he turned eleven, he made the silly mistake of calling his brother when he thought the house was empty. His nanny let him out of the attic secretly, afraid he would grow fungus just as the walls did. He called his brother and was ecstatic to hear his brother’s voice. His nanny had advised him against calling but did he listen? No. He went back to his world, feeling contended and as happy as a lark as he took out his violin and started coaxing it to sing. Late at night, when Dvorek’s Largo from the New World merged with the air in the attic, the door opened and his father stepped in. He thought no more of it. His father always visited him unannounced anyway. Every night, it was the same tedious repetition of being beaten and whipped. It did not matter. His father would not let him die as long as he still found joy and sick satisfaction at tormenting his son. He continued playing though he knew his father hated him to play, would punish him for playing the violin and yet, placing the instrument so close to him knowing he would touch it, love it and make it sing. Like the devil, he tempted the boy only to damn the boy for falling. Normally, the boy would have jumped and threw the violin aside. That night, he continued to play, to be stubborn even as his father unbelted himself and whipped him from behind cruelly. Again and again the lashes fell. Louder and louder he defied. His thin cotton t-shirt ripped in many places until it hung in tatters over his body; tatters that stuck to his many welts. He thought he was going to die but he thought wrong. His father sent him to another hell that night, a hell where the screams were muted."

He plucked some yellow flowers with petals soggy from the downpour earlier and threw them slowly one by one into the grave he dug. As each one fell, so did my soul, falling deeper and deeper into a never-ending abyss. I remembered the call, how could I not? He did sound ecstatic and while I was speaking through my tears, he was laughing gaily away at having heard my voice. But I heard his fears and his yearning for me to go and rescue him. I heard his torment when his voice started to break at some parts. I also heard his laughter and hope that the sun would be shining bright the next day.

"When his father left, he wrapped himself up in his blanket. So what if it would stick to the wounds? He wanted to be safe; to be covered. He wanted to feel warm. Hurrying over to his table, he picked up a pen and brought up some paper. He wrote the last letter to his brother. He was dying and he knew. He was dying. He wrote… ‘I’m dying Saiah. I’m dying. Save me...Save me…’ Over and over again he wrote his pleas. He filled five pages- ten sides- of begging. His handwriting was so small, his tears blotched the pages. The pen’s nib broke."

The flowers formed a bed.

"He passed it to his nanny. He waited…waited and waited. No letters. No brother. No mommy. No love. And even his nanny left. Slowly, the chill set in. It would always be winter. And the chill becomes frostier by the night, more stinging by the day. Elijah slowly emerged as Lijah’s light dimmed."

A sparkling tear trickled down his cheek and dropped onto the flower bed. The flowers cried.

"Thirteen and he was still frail; still so pale. One night, his father barged into his room with a knife. His father wanted to hurt him more, wanted to cut him up. Pushed, desperate, he fought…he fought and somehow, he got the knife. He pointed it shakily at his father to deter him, so the monster would not come too close. But his father was approaching still, a sneer on his face. Call it fate if you must, or God’s will or something else but there was a sheet of music score on the floor. His father had not seen it, neither did he. When the man lunged for the boy, he slipped on the paper. The boy wanted to let go of the serrated knife but everything happened too fast. His father fell on the blade that impaled his heart. The monster fell to the floor, his eyes fixed on the boy. The boy knelt down next to his father who was not breathing and tried to revive him. But the man was not breathing. The man would never breathe again."

Another drop of tear and the flowers wept all the more.

"Blood…so much blood. A stark crimson red covered the blindingly white snow in his heart. No matter what, the dead man was still his father. The boy was numbed; shocked. After that he cried, cried for the man who fathered him, brought him to this world. He cried for the father the man never was. In a way, he did love his father, though he hated him to the core. Had he killed his father? He held on to the knife, didn’t he? He was acquitted. No trial. The verdict was accidental death. Some people are nice to kids who are abused."

He tore up some leaves and sprinkled them like confetti over the flower bed.

I shook with helplessness.

"Foster homes after foster homes he went to but he never found acceptance. Sometimes, he was abused as well. As a freak who didn’t speak, no one liked him. So he went into an orphanage but the irony was, his mother was still alive- an ethereal figure in his mind. He set his heart on finding her but he had no avenues and his shoes were too cheap to carry him across the distance. His life became one unceasing blur of mistakes and calculated moves. Framed by his peers and blackmailed by his high school teacher, he just did what he had to do without remorse; without pride. It was so much easier to be detached, to be impassive. If there were emotions, he would go mad. Obsessed with a goal he wanted to achieve, he became a shampoo boy who moonlighted as a social escort by night during his college days. The money was good if one was willing to debase oneself. He paid for his tuition as he refused all scholarships, abhorring to be bonded to any organizations or anyone. Playing around with shares, he managed to earn a profit before the stock market crashed. He was attaining his goal and life was only tolerable until he met her and she became one of his female clients. For the first time, he fell in love. She managed to thaw some frost and in her arms, they sinned. She was forty-eight and a very lovely woman, with the blood of the English, French, German, Chinese and Indian flowing through her veins. He thought he saw the whole world in her face and she inspired him to pick up the violin again. He would serenade her with the delicate instrument and she would whisper sonnets into his ears. But all dreams had to end. She went back to her husband. It was only a business deal, just like any others, only that she bought his time and he was exclusive to her. Her daughter, a year older than him, graduated from Yale in the same year as him. She was in the same ceremony where the boy was valedictorian, conferred with a 1^st class Honors Degree in Law."

Reaching into his breast pocket, he took out a crinkly, yellowed photograph. I could not see who was captured in it but I had a sense again. Yet, I was still bonded to inertia as I tasted the brackishness of my own sorrows.

"Hardly twenty-one and he joined the FBI. Green and inexperience, he was probably only accepted because of his IQ which he doubted many times throughout his life, no matter what amazing results the psychologists were so impressed with. The job fed his brains but he wanted something more. An opportunity presented itself and he took it and everyone in his department was glad to see him go.

Twenty-two and he met his brother again. His biological elder brother. The dark-haired man looked at him all the time, searching for that little boy. He did not how to tell the man, the man that was a stranger already, that Lijah was gone and never coming back. If Lijah screamed, it was only sad echoes from the grave.

The chill had already set in and encased whatever remained of Lijah into an icy coffin. Elijah had completely taken over. Elijah will take care of Lijah’s memory…"

He kissed the photograph and I did nothing but braced myself for the horror that was to come next. Holding it close to his chest, he leaned forward and kissed the cold, wet grave.

"Lijah dreamt of her. She is so beautiful. He looked just like her. He was beautiful, until he met me."

Placing the photo gently into the burial bed he had made, he stared at it for a while and I begged in my heart for the madness to pass. A third drop of tear and the flowers drowned.

"Rest in peace Mother. Lijah is back now, where he wanted, close to you."

Pushing the heap of soil he had unearthed back into the hole, Lijah hummed the lullaby. I shut my eyes, unable to watch anymore, but I was incapable of shutting out sound so I heard, and my senses made me see deeper than my eyes ever could.

"Rest in peace Lijah. Now she knows. Now, you can be with her and be safe. You don’t have to scream anymore. Someone heard. He heard you."

I heard him stand up and leave, his footsteps gradually fading away. That was the last time I saw him. I returned to Manhattan and raced straight for his apartment to find it emptied, saved a note on the table for me. Whatever he had brought on the trip to Angel’s Springs, those were all he possessed. Gray Man called me, harassed because he received an email with a resignation letter attached from Lijah. Lynn became my partner, and my next understudy.

Now, I’m in my own apartment. Autumn left and with it, my brother. The winter chill hangs icicles from my bones as frosted flakes of flowers drifts down to Earth, laying down a new, untarnished blanket on the roads and sidewalks below as bald trees wears a white, wintry cap.

Christmas’s approaching fast but my heart’s weigh down with melancholy.

It is night time and I can hear the innocent, chirpy voices of children singing carols on the carpeted hallway of some floors below mine. Christmas, where family members far away rushed back home just in time to share a meal of Turkey and where lovers steal chances under the mistletoes to kiss. Lynn had come to my house two nights ago to hang all the mistletoes she bought. We kissed many times and when I lapsed into my solemn reverie, her embraces just made it all seemed better. Her embraces always make things better.

Rising up from my couch, I walk across the darkness to the windows and close them, shutting out the joy for a moment. It’s not that I choose to wallow myself in mud, refusing to let happiness enter. No, I still have love. But right now, I need some silence and solitude to my own grief.

I return to my couch and sat down heavily. The cheery song haunted my sadness, bringing me yet again to the realization that I have not done enough. When Lijah buried the symbol of himself, I had just watched, shocked to the very core, unable to move.

Taking out the third cigarette for the night, I light it up and inhale in the noxious fumes into my lungs. Lynn will berate me for sure but some habits are hard to kick even though I know they’re bad for me. Reaching into my breast pocket, I drew out the photograph that was permanently tainted by hints of mud. I must be delicate in handling it or it will just disintegrate. The darkness hinders me from seeing it properly but I need no light. I see the face in my mind- the face clearer than a lone, dazzling star on the blackest night.

Help to make the season bright.

The photograph was one of little Lijah. He was five when he took it. My baby brother. I missed him terribly.

As I sat, gazing into the darkness, I begin to wonder where he is. But for all my senses and intuition, my mind’s blank to this question. The ringing phone indulges my ire but I reach over and pick it up anyway. The asthmatic breath of dear Howard on the other line greets me.

"I found out the whereabouts of your three Fates and emailed you the information. Now… what about the rest of my fee?"

"You’ll get it. I’m a man of my word. Bye." I hang up, not knowing if I should jump for joy or not. For though Llijah told me plenty, there’re still gaps I need to fill. Answers to my father’s hatred towards him and my mom; to his monstrosity that killed Lijah; to the secrets yet unlocked.

My father the violent man, his hate consuming his conscience and rationality. My father, finally shredding my brother’s innocence completely with his vicious anger in a perverted need to brutalize and hurt on that night where Lijah penned that plea for help which I never received. Whatever he had done must be much worst than the beatings and the whips which were already too terrible to even remember. I still carry the physical scars on my back and the emotional marks on my soul. I dare not think about it, but one day, I know the truth will come to me. When it’s naked before my eyes, I know it will rip me apart.

My father- the drug lord. My father- wife-tormentor. My father- child-abuser. My father- murderer.

My father- Daniel Raily.

And I and Lijah are the legacies he left behind in his carnage. But while I escaped, Lijah paid.

But I am not him, and neither is Lijah. I have seen his violence in Lijah but I saw something else in my beloved brother that he did not have- humanity and love. That will save him. Nonetheless, Lijah is still a frightened boy and seeing me awakened the demons he had forced sleep upon so he had to run. And he had to run fast and far away from me.

And me? I am Isaiah Raily. My name means Salvation of God.

But I can’t save my brother.

I inhaled in one last ghost of the cigarette and stub out the cigarette on the ashtray. It’s late and I’m tired. I close my eyes against the darkness.

Christmas’ coming. I hope Lijah will find some peace finally. I’ll see him again, I’m sure of it. He’s somewhere out there and one day, our paths will cross. When the time comes, I will not be passive. I will do something to salvage what’s left of this splintered relationship.

Christmas’ coming. Love and peace for all. Love and peace for my brother.

Merry Christmas to you, dear Lijah. Wherever you are.