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Brahms wasn’t letting up.
Greta knew that if she gave Brahms the chance, he’d kill Malcolm. He’d bash the man’s head in like he bashed Cole’s, like he bashed Emily’s. If she gave him the chance, Brahms might bash hers too.
But as the old wood of the door creaked and groaned against her palms, it’s aged hinges barely containing her efforts to escape, her mind refused to give. She’d read the letter, or what she could of it, and as horrible as it was, she didn’t sound like a sacrifice. She hadn’t seen any ‘Greta will make a fine meal’s or ‘We’ll fatten Greta up for you’s. They hadn’t sounded like the wicked witch of the woods looking for pretty nannies to feed their should-be-dead son. They had sounded like sad, desperate folk, like parents who were ready for an empty nest but their hatchling simply refused to fly.
In the heat of her fear and anger, Greta did what she did best, what she’d been doing for the past week she’d been here. She faced her back to the door, which was still as tightly shut as she found it, steadied her gaze (albeit hard to watch poor Malcolm get beat on), and shouted.
“Brahms Heelshire you stop that this instant!”
Her voice was hoarse and the shout is raw. Her words carried through the small room like nails on a chalkboard and almost immediately the adult Brahms has stopped. The terror that filled her moments ago returns tenfold as the doll faced man directs his porcelain gaze her way, his eyes unreadable. They’re glazed, she can see, and one looks like as if a vessel has popped, yet as firmly as she believes whoever is behind that mask will rush through the room and maim her that instant, the blows simply never come.
They’re ten feet from each other, Greta reckons. Not enough time to bust down the door even if Brahms attention was still focused on Malcolm, but some part of her figures she couldn’t have busted it open even with a hundred feet between them. It’s that cruel part of her that says it’s because she’s weak, that the very reason she can’t bust down the door and be the hero is the same reason she couldn’t tell Cole to leave, but another part of her, her dwindling rationale she supposes, knows it’s because, just like the windows, it’s painted shut. The old wood had lost its battle against the new-age chemicals long before she came along.
She didn’t dare busy herself with the door any longer. She’d played this game with Cole, their little cat and mouse, so she knew that even had the door not been tampered, she still wouldn’t have been quick enough to make it out and to the gates. Instead, she held her gaze steady and prayed to whatever god that was listening.
A moment passed with nothing from Brahms, and then another.
Ages, it felt like ages before one of them moved. Her shoulders were stiff, eyes dry, hands blooming with bruises, and with that her body reckoned they’d waited an eternity sitting up against the old door, but truly only half a minute had passed. A whole thirty moments of terror and anticipation, bubbling and hissing as both conscious bodies (Malcolm had ceased moving once Brahms stopped beating him) stared each other down, both waiting. It was only when Brahms looked back to the man below him and away from Greta, his lovely, kind Greta, did she dare take a breath. Her cracked lips sucked in a small gasp and her lungs tingled painfully at the air, tongue dry and throat hoarse. She reckoned she should shout again, lest Brahms see Malcolm and decide to resume his antics, but before she could get another breath in, Brahms was scrambling up off Malcolm and dashing away.
The pads of his naked feet echoed for a moment before they were lost on the blood rushing through Greta’s ears, and soon, the sobs that racked her body.
***
The stained silver of the butter knife shone dully against the kitchen light above as deft fingers pushed it cleanly through the sandwich. She cut it once, corner to corner, before slicing off the edges. She hadn’t any idea how Brahms liked his PB and J’s, so he got his crusts cut off until he said otherwise. The orchard jelly bubbled out around the corners, displaced and dripping onto the plate, but Greta couldn’t find it in her to care. At least it wasn’t making a mess on the counter top.
Beside her, a saucepan of milk simmered atop the stove, the occasional bubble breaching it’s white surface. She had set it on low, the Heelshire’s didn’t have a microwave, and hoped the milk wouldn’t be too hot by the time she took it off. Slipping the knife into the sink, Greta trained her eyes on the creamy surface and did her best to calm her mind.
She had found Brahms sitting in his room, silent in his rocking chair. Head down and ankles crossed, Greta had thought he looked like a kicked puppy. His room was a mess, Greta reckoned she’d missed a tantrum while she tended to Malcolm, and doubted he was faring any different than the state he’d put his room into. But what struck her most was when she walked over to him, there were still tears dripping off his chin.
Clicking her blunt nails against the counter, she recalled how pliable the man had been, almost as if he had been waiting for her word. He followed her instructions with a near alarming amount of obedience as she corralled him back downstairs and into the kitchen. He’d been at her heel like he was afraid he’d lose her if he dallied on their trip, still as silent as she had found him.
Right now, she knew Brahms was sitting around five feet from her, patient in his chair. She had her back to him, a move most people wouldn’t make considering he killed one man and tried to do the same to another all less than ten minutes prior, but Greta figured that since she was making the murderer a PB and J with a glass of warm milk, she wasn’t like most people.
It had been too easy to slip back into her role, she felt. Yes, the Brahms she found sitting in his rocking chair with tears on his face was not the same Brahms she’d been tucking into bed and giving goodnight kisses to, but as she rubbed his shoulder and told him to come with her, as he sniffled and hung his head in head in shame, the lines between the doll and the real Brahms began to blur.
Flicking her eyes to the clock, Greta pushed the thoughts back for another time. It was nearly one ( long past Brahms bedtime, she noted ) and she needed to finish up soon if Malcolm was going to make it to the hospital. The foyer couches didn’t seem all too comfortable, the older Heelshires had obviously preferred the seats deeper within the house, but that was the farthest she could drag Malcolm's dead weight. Not dead, her mind chirped, just unconscious.
With one more look to the milk, Greta reached across the stove, clicked off the burner, and grabbed a glass from the cabinets above. It was a fine glass, caught nicely in the light, and she didn’t doubt that Mr. or Mrs. Heelshire had had a drink of brandy from it. Grabbing the saucepan, she made careful work of the liquid, going slow and holding it with a steady hand as to not spill. The milk near hit the rim and for a split moment, Greta worried that Brahms would spill it.
‘ Don’t be ridiculous . He’s a grown man, a murderous one at that, and not a child’, her mind chattered. ‘ Yeah, but does he know that?’ another part of her argued.
Sighing, Greta slid the pan into the sink right alongside the knife, making note to clean it in the morning. She doubted that by the time she finished getting Malcolm to the hospital and dealing with whatever the hell was wrong with Brahms, she’d still have the energy to wash the dishes.
“Here,” bringing over the plate and glass, Greta slid them in front of Brahms, their hard edges clinking against the kitchen's island. Brahms remained the same as he’d been, head down, ankles crossed, but thankfully the tears had stopped.
‘ Why do you care if he’s crying? He damn near murdered Malcolm.’ A silent moment passed as she watched Brahms, ‘ You’re right, why do I care?’
“C’mon buddy,” nudging the plate some, Greta waited for the other to move. After a few moments, Brahms remained as still as when she had left him to make the meal. “Eat some, it’ll make you feel better,” a total lie, she didn’t even know if Brahms liked PB and J’s, but at least it got his attention. With bloodshot eyes, still wet with remnants of tears, the man looked up to her, staring with the valiance of a blind puppy.
“Are you mad at me?”
“I’m..” Greta knew what that meant. She’d asked it countless times before: when Cole came home upset, when she messed up dinner, when he wanted something and she refused to give it. All those times she’d asked that very question, and each time he’d tell her no and that she should mind her own business, but she knew. Be it by angry huffs, quick glares over the table, or the silent treatment, she knew Cole was angry, and what had hurt the most in those moments was even though she knew he was upset with her, she could do nothing to fix it. “.. upset with what’s happened.” Cole’s dead now, lying cold in the pool room. She doesn’t need to worry about upsetting him anymore.
She grounds herself by focusing back on Brahms. She can’t tell much with the mask in the way, but hopes her words have eased him some. To plant her words home though, Greta steps a touch closer and kneels down next to him, hand resting on his thigh as she looks up at him.
“Brahms,” she starts, keeping in mind to hold her voice steady and soft, but still his hands clench in his lap. She knows she should be running for the hills, the man still has Cole’s blood on him for chrissakes, but she might as well keep being the nanny until the shock wears off, she reckons. It’s not like she has much better to do until then. “..why did you do that?”
The effect is immediate. “I’m sorry Greta, I’m a good boy I promise-”
“Brahms.” She can see his shoulders shaking and he’s rubbing his ankles together but when his throat moves to apologize again, the words never leave his lips. “Did you mean to do that?”
“H-He was gonna take you Greta, he was g-gonna,” his throat hitched and the nanny felt her heart clench, “take you away ‘cause I was a bad boy and-”
“It’s okay, Brahms.” Squeezing his thigh, Greta continued, “It’s alright.”
She knows it's not okay. In fact, this whole thing is the complete opposite of okay. There’s a dead man in the pool room and a dying one in the foyer, not to mention the thought-to-be-dead Heelshire progeny that’s been living in the walls and stalking her ( could she call it stalking? It was Brahms home after all ) for the past week, who revealed himself only to bludgeon someone and chase the rest through the house. No, this whole ordeal was not okay in the slightest, but it seems the shock has yet to wear off and the man is falling apart in front of her, so she tells Brahms it’s okay.
“Go ahead,” She can see the tears pooling back up in his eyes and a cruel part of her thinks it’s just how her baby’s were supposed to look, “drink some milk.”
He held her gaze for a moment more before reaching for his glass. His fingers shake when he lifts his mask and Greta realizes that leaving might be a lot harder than she thought.