DOOMSDAY || TREECH

Treech stumbles up the front lawn of his home, his breath escaping him in short puffs in a fight to maintain his composure. It's a loosing battle as tears begin to brim his eyes.

"Treech?" A voice calls from the side of the house.

"Yeah." He replies, his voice cracking with the effort. Bentley rounds the corner with a shovel in hand.

"Where were you?" Treech's father questions, eyes trained on the red sting on his waterline. It's only met with a soft shrug.

His father's signs heavily, stomping past the boy only stopping at the edge of their yard to beckon his son with a firm nod.

Bentley leads him down the road, towards the lumber yards. It wasn't until the reached the chain fence indicating the edge of the city that Treech began to wonder if his father planned on murdering him and burying his body where nobody would find it for disobeying his order to leave Laurel alone.

He even jumps slightly at the clang of the shovel hitting the ground on the opposite side of the fence, "Up." Bentley orders already clambering up the wall with ease.

As he follows his father Treech wonders how often Bentley did this. His father had always been a strait laced man, strong and serious. It's hard to imagine him regularly participating in criminal activities.

"I like this part of the woods." Bentley finally speaks up once they've made it out of sight of the lumbar yards.

"It's different to the plantation forests." Treech mumbles in agreement. There were small patches of natural woodlands scattered throughout the neat rows of trees inside the city, but these felt different. They're untamed, not trapped by human intervention, with louder birdsongs and mossy ground beneath their feet.

"Don't ever come here alone." His father's voice is stern. He makes a sharp turn around a large oak before stopping between two large roots. Between them, the dirt is fresher than its surroundings, fluffy as though it had been newley laid. "Dig."

Bentley and Treech move in silence until his shovel clangs loudly against something solid, "Careful." His father whispers softly, arms disappearing into the earth.

Between them he sits a metal box about the size of one of the few novels his mother enjoyed. It's rusted on the edges and dinted where Treech had stuck it.

Bentley slowly pries the lid open, inside is a rough engraving make with a knife or nail: 'Bentley Brody. If found without owner return to Brooke Brody, distric 7.'

"Here." Bentley grunts holds out a thin piece of paper.His hand shakes as Treech takes it like a thick branch in a storm.

Treech can already make out the looping shape of his mother's hand writing from the ink that has bleed through the page.

"My dear Bentley,

I do not imagine this letter will reach you, but nonetheless I must try.
You promised to be home soon but I expect I may never hear from you again. After everything that has happened I understand why.

Bentley, my Bentley, I have been dreaming the silliest of dreams. I miss you and if we never see each other again, I will always miss you.

I don't know if I can live like this, even if it is so that we don't have to for much longer. I'm scared. It is only when I am with you that the world makes sense. And I think it is because we are apart that I must do this.

I cannot tell you where I will be if you do come home, but I hope that one day we can be together again.

I'm so sorry, for everything. For everything before now and what may come after. You are a good man Bentley, but you must know we are wrestling with a giant, a giant that cannot be beaten. He will win, time and time again.

Yours always,
-Bee."

Treech's father had never been an affectionate man. Not to say he was a bad father, but his parents had always had their roles. His father was a worker, strong and firm while his mother would dote and fuss, looking after their home and the five boys was just as large a job as his father's.

"I was going to wait until you boys were a bit older." Bentley highs digging the heel of his palm into Treech's should, "But... it's pieces of our history, our districts and our families, that you should know."

"She was going to leave you?" Treech mumbles, unable to tear his eyes from the page.

"Yes."

"Were you angry?"

Bentley takes in a deep breath, letting his broad chest fill completely before he replies, "I was a lot of different things, but I was scared most of all. I had lost a lot of people to the war, but loosing your mother would have been the end of me."

A bird whistles above them, just out of sight behind the thick leaves of the forest.

"I don't remember." Treech mumbles, trying to sift through the foggy memories of his childhood.

"She didn't do it. She didn't even send the letter." Bentley leans back, resting in the junction of two large roots, "But I don't think of her as any less for having written it, in fact I think she was very brave."

Treech can't help but feel that his father is a better man than he could ever be, "Laurel's killing herself." He mutters finally, the letter wrinkles in his grip.

Bentley doesn't move from his spot, only gesturing for Treech to rest beside him, "I think you're underestimating her."