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The moon was bright that night, stars sprinkled on the sky, brightening the field below. It was pretty, the night usually was on the farm. But Oscar wasn't thinking about the sky, or the moon, or the stars. All he was thinking about was his baby brother next to him, his small frame shivering in the early May breeze.
"Hey Os??" Morris whispered as he lay on the grassy field of the family farm. He squirmed, back damp from the dew soaking through his too-small shirt. And the blood.
"Hm??" Oscar sat up, turning to look at his brother through a swollen eye. He had really tried this time, tried to be big, be angrier than his Pa. Keep him off of Morris. It didn't work. They had the bruises and the blood to prove it.
"D'you think Da loves us??"
Oscar didn't know how to answer. He wasn't sure Pa was capable of loving. But he seemed to stay with Ma, so there's gotta be something there. "Maybe a little bit, Mo."
"I wish he loved us," Oscar heard Morris sniffle, and he automatically steeled his resolve.
"Quit your crying, Mo," he reprimanded. "It's no use. Doesn't make Ma feel bad for you anymore. Jus' thinks you're weak."
Oscar learned how to stop crying ages ago, learned that tears weren't more than just a goal for their Pa, to see the salty streaks slip down their little cheeks as they begged him to stop, that they were sorry, that they didn't mean to make him mad.
Oscar closed his eyes, hoping he could get a bit of fitful sleep before the morning. In the morning, Pa would wake, make Oscar (or Morris, but Oscar was the one who could reach the counter) fix him a drink, and he'd sit back and watch the day go by. If he was in a good mood - which he very rarely was - he'd let the boys go with just a talking to and maybe a few slaps if they messed up. If he was in a bad mood, Oscar'd be lucky if he could see out of both eyes the next day.
He tried to take most of the beating, knowing that Morris was fragile. He was only a year younger than Oscar, but he still wanted his Ma and Pa to care for him. Still thought that Pa might just have had a bad day, that he'd stop his drinking tomorrow. Still thought that Ma would protect him, wipe his tears as he cried, clean the blood off his face. Oscar knew better. Ma never wanted Oscar, thought he was a freak of nature. She never bothered to get him baptized. Maybe the church didn't like bastardized babies. Oscar wasn't sure. He didn't get the sermons they preached, about sin and hell and eternal damnation. He didn't need to hear them. He already knew what hell was. Satan was just a man with an iron fist and Oscar's eyes.
But Morris, Morris was different. He liked Sundays, liked hearing the pastor tell them about the Bible and Adam and Eve and the snake. He listened intently every time, got baptized, went to confession. Oscar thought that he did this to get Ma to love him more. He worshipped her like a God.
A beat passed. Morris spoke up, "Hey Os??"
Oscar opened his eyes, looking up at the stars that dusted the sky. It was clear tonight, and for a moment, Oscar could see the constellations of Morris' freckles in the murky black. "What do you want??"
"What's the Refuge??" Morris' voice shook as he asked that, the same way it did when he talked to Pa. Fear. Oscar didn't like that he made Morris feel that kind of fear. But Morris was curious - always a curious kid - and it didn't seem right to deprive him of an answer.
Truth be told, though, Oscar didn't know what the Refuge was. He'd heard Pa talk about it, say that he was gonna send them there. It didn't seem good. The guy that runs it, Spider or Snyder or whatever, had come to the farm before. Oscar'd eavesdropped on their conversation, hiding in the kitchen as they bonded over scotch. Neat, on the rocks, just the way Pa liked it. The man said that it was "just the place to whip young delinquents into shape." He seemed impressed. Oscar didn't want to go there. The man was scary, tall and scarred and looked too much like Pa.
"...I dunno, Mo," Oscar eventually replied. "Pa liked it."
"I don't wanna go there, Os," Morris curled up next to Oscar, the way he would night after night of beatings and nightmares and tears. "I don't wanna be without you."
Oscar wrapped an arm around Morris, holding him to his chest the way one would their child. "I'd be there. I'll always be there."
"I don' wanna be like Da," he continued, tears welling up in his eyes again. "I hate him. He hurt you, Os."
He hurt Morris too. Hurt him bad. Towered over him, three times his size, beating him till the room was red and he was sure the neighbours two miles down could hear Morris' screams for mercy, prayers for salvation. Gently, Oscar leaned down, kissing the top of his head, the brunet curls. "You're never gonna be like him, Mo. Never ever."
"Promise??" Morris sniffled, trying his best not to cry anymore. Oscar said not to, and he trusted his big brother.
Oscar took a deep breath, hoping he couldn't hear how his voice cracked and his throat tightened. "Promise."
"Mhm..." This seemed to satisfy Morris, he whined for a bit over the pain, to which Oscar did his best to ease it, rubbing his raw back soothingly as he wiped the tears from his soft cheeks. Eventually, he settled down, breathing slowly as he began to fall asleep. "G'night, Os, I love you."
In the morning, Oscar'd have to deal with Pa and the Refuge and Ma and God and the litany of life. But for right now, all he saw was the twinkling sky and Morris. He was happy. "I love you too."
And so they slept.