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J A C K S O N
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Jackson shuffled along in his mother's absence dutifully that day. He may not have been the best of sons, but he had a few redeemable qualities about him. Chores waited none too patiently to be attended to, and were not in short supply despite there only being two occupants to the house. It was a fair amount of work keeping a falling in building from doing exactly that, falling in, but it was a job tackled without much effort on painfully slow Sunday's when you had inhuman abilities, and endless stretches of time at your disposal since being suspended like Jackson had. The gutters had to be cleaned but first reattached, the lawn mowed-but only for the sake of weeds as the grass was stubbornly refusing to grow, and Jackson was pretty sure something had died in their crawl space making the whole house reek.
It was about mid-morning, when he was visiting the broom closet to locate some gloves or a bucket to work with, that a water stained, decaying shoe box fell without any preamble from the top shelf, hitting the floor with a soggy thump. It's contents managed to escape spilling out all over Jackson's boots but only just. It was nondescript and not of this decade, made clear by its bare cardboard body sans any logo. This was not a particularly entertaining find in and of itself, his mother had managed to collect a slight hoard of ill cared for keepsakes stashed away in boxes of varying sizes over the years. Just enough to leave a cluttered feeling behind with all who perused their contents, but not enough to prove unreasonable to take with you in a hurry. However, what was intriguing was that Jackson had known every single one of those boxes intimately after shuffling them from home to home, and yet he had never personally relocated this one.
Perhaps it was just a new old box, one found and re-purposed for her overflow items, this seemed a sensible enough idea, and yet he couldn't resign himself to leave it alone, placing it safely on the shelf to get back to work, without first investigating. Say what you will about individual privacy, but here that concept didn't exist between a mother and son when, said aforementioned son, had unpacked the contents of his mother underwear drawer on her behalf more than a time or two.
It could also have had something to do with the fact that his current chore, decaying opossum duty, was a particularly unpleasant one to be avoided by any means of procrastination.
He gingerly peeled back the lid, handling it more delicately out of suspense rather than care. Delicate was not a word oft found in the vocabulary that made up Jackson Kastner's being. Inside were stacks of crinkled yellowed papers, every empty margin filled with hastily scribbled words. It was curious, obviously some type of correspondence between his mother and some unidentified person. The letters were unsigned and insignificant in appearance, it was only once he pulled one off the top and began reading that he realized the importance of the letters and their nature. Back and forth the pair wrote to each other countless times, the man asking about Jackson and his progress, if he could come and see him. Hope took root in his chest. Could it be something from his late father? Some insight into who he was as a man? No...A lump formed in Jackson's throat as his mother shot the writer down time and time again. It couldn't be his father, could it? He had died before Jackson was born. But then why would this stranger be eager to meet her son?
Jackson had settled into the floor, pages fanned out all around him, time forgotten when he discovered it. A mistake, a slip of the pen, a clue. Brother. the author was growing impatient, frustrated with the infrequency of the updates and wanted to see Jackson, wanted to see his brother. Jackson felt shell shocked. Like the whole world around him was tilting and balance and gravity suddenly became meaningless. This man wasn't his father but rather his sibling, a sibling that by all accounts was still alive and had wanted to be with them but was denied. Anger roared through his veins, setting his blood on fire. Why? Why would his mother do this?! Let him feel so alone all of these years, deprive him of family, keep this a secret? With revived determination he gathered the letters back up and drug the entirety of the box down stairs to the kitchen table. He spread them out in an impressive display, a physical accusation, and jerked out a chair to sit in. He would wait, unflinching for how ever long it took, all the while growing more and more fueled in his resolve. The past two days had been leading up to this moment. No more lies. Jackson would have his truths. She couldn't hide this from him any longer.
He. Had. A. Brother.
It was about mid-morning, when he was visiting the broom closet to locate some gloves or a bucket to work with, that a water stained, decaying shoe box fell without any preamble from the top shelf, hitting the floor with a soggy thump. It's contents managed to escape spilling out all over Jackson's boots but only just. It was nondescript and not of this decade, made clear by its bare cardboard body sans any logo. This was not a particularly entertaining find in and of itself, his mother had managed to collect a slight hoard of ill cared for keepsakes stashed away in boxes of varying sizes over the years. Just enough to leave a cluttered feeling behind with all who perused their contents, but not enough to prove unreasonable to take with you in a hurry. However, what was intriguing was that Jackson had known every single one of those boxes intimately after shuffling them from home to home, and yet he had never personally relocated this one.
Perhaps it was just a new old box, one found and re-purposed for her overflow items, this seemed a sensible enough idea, and yet he couldn't resign himself to leave it alone, placing it safely on the shelf to get back to work, without first investigating. Say what you will about individual privacy, but here that concept didn't exist between a mother and son when, said aforementioned son, had unpacked the contents of his mother underwear drawer on her behalf more than a time or two.
It could also have had something to do with the fact that his current chore, decaying opossum duty, was a particularly unpleasant one to be avoided by any means of procrastination.
He gingerly peeled back the lid, handling it more delicately out of suspense rather than care. Delicate was not a word oft found in the vocabulary that made up Jackson Kastner's being. Inside were stacks of crinkled yellowed papers, every empty margin filled with hastily scribbled words. It was curious, obviously some type of correspondence between his mother and some unidentified person. The letters were unsigned and insignificant in appearance, it was only once he pulled one off the top and began reading that he realized the importance of the letters and their nature. Back and forth the pair wrote to each other countless times, the man asking about Jackson and his progress, if he could come and see him. Hope took root in his chest. Could it be something from his late father? Some insight into who he was as a man? No...A lump formed in Jackson's throat as his mother shot the writer down time and time again. It couldn't be his father, could it? He had died before Jackson was born. But then why would this stranger be eager to meet her son?
Jackson had settled into the floor, pages fanned out all around him, time forgotten when he discovered it. A mistake, a slip of the pen, a clue. Brother. the author was growing impatient, frustrated with the infrequency of the updates and wanted to see Jackson, wanted to see his brother. Jackson felt shell shocked. Like the whole world around him was tilting and balance and gravity suddenly became meaningless. This man wasn't his father but rather his sibling, a sibling that by all accounts was still alive and had wanted to be with them but was denied. Anger roared through his veins, setting his blood on fire. Why? Why would his mother do this?! Let him feel so alone all of these years, deprive him of family, keep this a secret? With revived determination he gathered the letters back up and drug the entirety of the box down stairs to the kitchen table. He spread them out in an impressive display, a physical accusation, and jerked out a chair to sit in. He would wait, unflinching for how ever long it took, all the while growing more and more fueled in his resolve. The past two days had been leading up to this moment. No more lies. Jackson would have his truths. She couldn't hide this from him any longer.
He. Had. A. Brother.