His shaggy over coat and uncleanly appearance, inflicted Theo with revulsion. His brother had never been the regular ‘soap and water’ man, but his current look was beyond the issue of hygiene.
“Hem, I understand that you’ve got quite a bit going on the moment, if you’d be so kind to illustrate your presence with some data, I would be much obliged.” Hemingway was nervous; his brother was uncomfortable with him. It was a shared awkwardness that seemed to be getting the better of Theo, who had resorted to shuffling his clumpy brown loafers against the Moroccan rug, which lay immobile beneath the weight of Theo’s prized possessions.
Hemingway had not encountered a figure such as his brother since he was six years old. His own Father had been an academic of societal literature. The discipline had never made any coherent sense to Hemingway. He wasn’t an intellectual, and his Father had despised that. He remembered night times, before the plagues, before the deaths and despair; his mother would enter his bedroom to tuck him into bed. She would sing a song that soothed his mind; she made his world safe. After her pale fingers had tightened the duvet around him, she would depart from his side, but leave his door open for the landing light to shine into his room: Hemingway was afraid of the dark. He could remember so clearly, his Father passing his room on his own way up to bed. His eyes would glare into his silent room. Just standing there staring at him. Hemingway watched as his Father’s hand gripped at the door handle, and ever so quietly pull the door shut on him.
The memory remained with him as adult, and brought fear to him at night. Theo reminded him of the man he had called Father, and it saddened him.
His brother was stood before him, glaring at him in the same manner their Father had. He felt weak and pathetic. It had not been wise to come here, he knew.
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