Chapter Text
Being nine years old was a lot harder than people realize, or rather remember. It is not just sunshine and rainbows, tiaras and learning how to multiply. It is the year that things are starting to take shape, at least for Bronwyn Michael-Charlton it was the year she finally started to see.
She had always been a perceptive girl; that is what her teachers always said during the boring meetings her parents attended every year.
Wyn is a bright, bright girl. Very shy, always carrying her bunny everywhere, but she is very perceptive, pays attention to detail, especially in art.
The first time she heard it, she had looked it up on her iPad. It was apparently a good quality to have, but she came to that conclusion on the drive home when Dad kept saying that she had got it from him, while Mummy argued back, stating that no, it came from her, especially in design. With her Dad then insulting said attribute, making Mummy stop talking for the rest of the day.
That day she figured out a couple of things:
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She is observant
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Her teacher likes her drawings
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Her parents argue a lot
(Maybe that's why Roark started to wear his headphones almost daily.)
It's a weird feeling, the realization that her life—her family—was different from her classmates'. She didn't have many friends. She was okay with that, though; she had everything she needed with Mr. Carrots and her color pencils, but it was impossible not to notice. Every day at pickup, parents would come to pick up their kids, smiling and holding hands and even hugging.
If Wyn was being honest, she couldn't think of an instance where both of her parents picked her and Roark up from school together…or hugged each other.
With her new sense of comprehension, she started to notice other things. It was late, way past bedtime, but she couldn't sleep. Mr. Carrots was downstairs. Wyn knew that if she made a lot of noise, then her parents would wake up, then they would not get enough sleep, and Mummy always said that if you don't get enough sleep, then you're grumpy in the morning.
Wyn doesn't want any more grumpiness.
Grumpy means more arguing.
So she needed to be very, very quiet. She didn't want more arguing.
When she finally made it down the stairs, she noticed that the telly was on. It was very quiet, but the soft murmurs of the person talking were evidence, as well as the light illuminating her mum's sleeping face.
Very softly, she made her way around the corner, walking on her tippy-toes, feeling like Carmen Sandiego ready to complete her mission. Entering the living room area, she was able to see the scene better. Mr. Carrots was in the comfy chair in the corner, right where she had left him.
Walking still on her tippy-toes, she made her way to it as softly as possible in order not to wake Mummy up. It was a little hard to see, but the light of the screen helped a little. What did not help was the sudden sound that the telly just made, sort of like an explosion. It made her jump and squeak at it. Covering her mouth, Wyn came to a full stop, looking straight at her mum to see if she would wake up.
She was thankfully still asleep, but she looked tired. Even with the colored lighting from the telly, it was easy to spot that her mum looked a little red—especially her nose—and there were black lines on her face starting at her eyes and going all the way down to her jaw.
Turning her head a little to the side to see better, Wyn realized they were not lines but tear marks.
Mum was crying.
But at what?
Slowly she turned her head toward the telly. It was a news channel. CNN, it read. She recognized it from school; every morning on Fridays, her teacher would play it, but there was no bald guy on the screen, only a woman.
She was pretty, with brown hair and brown eyes. She was wearing a helmet and a shirt that had the word PRESS right in the middle in big white letters.
The pretty lady wasn't on a normal set but rather outside, showing a house, or rather what was left of it. It was completely destroyed like it had been through a war.
Why was her mum watching war news?
Suddenly, a window popped up asking if they were still watching. The window made the video exit out of full screen, allowing Wyn to read the title of what was actually happening.
War-Torn Aleppo—CNN Reports with Andrea Sachs.
That's her middle name!
The pretty lady had her name!
Maybe she could ask her mum about it later and make sure she was okay and offer Mr. Carrots if she ever cried again.
Another sound happened, this time coming from upstairs.
Wyn looked straight toward it. Her mum was still asleep but was frowning now. Okay, enough time wasted. She needed to focus, get Mr. Carrots, and run (walk) back to her room.
She dashed for him and turned on her heels back toward the stairs. When she made it up and to her room, Roark was sitting on her bed. Standing frozen at the door, she squeezed Mr. Carrots to her chest. Was she too loud? Maybe she woke him up, and now he is grumpy and is gonna arg—
“She was crying?” Roark cut her internal monologue off with the most serious tone she had ever heard him speak in.
“Asleep,” Wyn whispered in hesitation. “The news was on the telly.”
“Were there papers on the table?” Roark picked at a loose thread on the blanket while he spoke.
Wyn shook her head, a little confused about why her brother was asking these questions. Why did he know their mum was downstairs and crying?
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Sometimes I go downstairs for water and I see her,” her brother whispered in response. “She is always watching the same woman on the telly, with articles all around the table also by the same woman.”
“Andrea?” The name suddenly felt weird in her mouth.
Roark nodded in response.
“Do we know her?”
“Never met her, but once Mum and Dad were arguing and her name came up.”
Wyn slowly nodded, her brain coming up with a million questions. Thankfully, her brother noticed her internal questioning and continued.
“But, I was looking through her office once and found a box. There were pictures of the lady and Mum. They looked old, but…” He stopped, closing his mouth looking down at his lap. Shaking his head, he looked back at her, closing and opening his mouth, clearly debating whether or not to tell her.
“Just say it.” Wyn’s voice came out a bit whinier than she wanted.
“In some pictures, the lady and Mum were kissing.”
Oh.
Maybe being observant was not a good thing.