Nicholas Vials: The Case Of Michael Vials

Nicholas felt his fingers burn from exhaustion. His eyes widened as he shuffled through the pile of letters that seemed to never lessen. He individually picked each one, quickly grazing his eyes over the cover of the letter, then tossing it away.

Nicholas became so engrossed in this activity that he hadn't heard his mother's footsteps in the doorway. Though all she did was stare at his futile attempts of finding the letter.

Nicholas picked another letter. "From: Mr. Morrison," he read before throwing it behind him. With a simple glance behind him, he acknowledged her presence, and she sighed, the glass of wine lazily held in her hand. She was drunk.

"We just buried Michael" The young Nicholas said, disappointed and discontent with her attitude.

"He was dead long before that, sweetheart," said Catherine as she leaned into the champagne glass, taking a sip that echoed in the large room. Even under the chandeliers gleaming torch, the absurdly large room seemed to scatter the light, depriving the young boy of any light.

"You could have waited till tomorrow. The guests are still coming in," he suggested as he continued scanning each piece of paper. Catherine scoffed, "My oldest son just died, that's the least of my concerns," she rolled her eyes, spilling the drink on her black dress. She seethed as the drink stained the callous black fabric.

Nicholas went silent, his hold on each letter seeming to weaken. Under the tall lights that seemed to lose their intensity before touching the floor, Nicholas' eyes strained. His eyes began to blur, he felt himself drowse, and his shoulders slouched in defeat.

"It's useless what you're doing," Catherine remarked, her demeanor rather calm.

"I saw it here, it was right here!" he was frustrated, running his hand over his face in an attempt to wash away the sleep.

"What did you say her name was again?" Catherine asked, she had now slid down the door, sitting at the base of its frame, her head bobbing to one side of her shoulder.

"I don't remember" he sighed, utter disdain in his voice as he threw the final letter out. "I'd tell it apart from the others if I would just find it" he groaned in frustration, finally laying back on the wooden floor, relieving his back. The two were separated by a single sofa, of which the royal blue covers threatened to come off. A soft glow lit up the room from the chandelier, and from behind the heavy curtains, the blue sky mourned with the Vials that day. A heavy yet soft rain had come to pass, yet the thunders remained.

"If you remember the contents of the letter, why bother searching for it?" she gulped.

"There might be something I overlooked," he replied.

"There is no need to use your brain when you have money, sweetheart. They have already taken in Mr. Sherrels' boy," Catherine said, her speech becoming a jumbled mess, but she refused to put the glass down.

"What if they are wrong?" Nicholas sighed, "Sherrels was so drunk he couldn't count to ten yet he supposedly killed Michael," Nicholas sounded disturbed. The boy who was once lying down sat up, his mind running amuck with thoughts and ideas. "Did you see the cut on his wrist? It was so clean," he sounded fascinated, his eyes darted to his mother who was practically laying on the floor, her glass of wine now spilling in slow pints onto the carpeted floor.

"You don't have to be sober to cut clean" Catherine hummed. Her figure absolutely battered and broken.

"Mr. Carols came to offer his condolences, he said he was impressed by your record," Catherine breathed before voicing her next sentence. "He said he'll work for your early admission in Doane" Catherine said in a blur of words. Her eyes darted to Nicholas, who immediately shot up from the carpet.

"But that's not possible, I haven't completed my schooling yet" he said, almost disappointed in the prospect.

"Your father said it'll be taken care of" Catherine's voice came in a soft whisper. Nicholas knew she was to be left alone or he would have to hear her babble nonsense all over again.

"I'm too young" Nicholas said to no one in particular. He was aware of the implications, he was aware of his father's plan. His father wasted no time in finding a replacement son and Nicholas was old enough to understand the consequence of his desires

"The heir is never too young" Catherine cooed. For once, in her drunken haze, she said something that wisened up a child. Her words resonated against the tall walls and Nicholas was left wondering what upset him so much about the them. "I'll try my best" said he, a small boy with no sense of the words he spoke.

Catherine simply hummed in response, her eyes sealed shut. "You were almost my brightest child," she said in a whisper as she gasped for air before falling face first onto the warm carpet.

The silence made Nicholas ears ring; he was once again left in the pile of letters, hoping that he had come to the right conclusion. He sighed as he toyed with the ring that he had fetched from the things that had been found at the site of his death. It was beautiful no doubt, but it was well suited for a woman.

It was not a drunken accident that killed Michael, it was not a villain in plain sight and it was certainly not Compton Sherrels that killed Michael. It was something beyond that, and he worried it was beyond his understanding.

---

Emberline could no longer bear the pain. It spread from the pit of her nose to the base of her skull, threatening to split her head in two. She needed to pour her heart out, but she couldn't sob in her bed with Anna-Lynn lying next to her.

She was careful not to wake anyone as she sneaked into the garden. Her hands clutched the door handle, pushing it open while seething at the loud creaking. It was impossible to remain discreet in that house, even with something so mundane. Emberline resorted to a quick approach, shutting the door behind her hastily.

She didn't care anymore. It was deep into the night, and she could still hear her father snoring. She slumped against the stairs, holding her head in her palms like a beggar clutching his empty cup. She immediately poured her heart out into her hands, sometimes unable to contain her sobs. Occasionally, she would mutter a word that even she could not hear. Sometimes, her heart would jump at just the thought of the matter at hand. She didn't want to lose her sister, but she realized it was something she should have thought of before taking her complaint to her father.

The young girl thought she had felt the extent of pain. She wiped away her tears one after another, but they left a new trail each time. Her skin numbed, and it felt as if she were caressing rubber. She felt so lightheaded that she didn't hear the door creak open.

Mortmain nudged Emberline on the shoulder with his small hands.

"Emberline?" he whispered. Emberline could recognize that innocent, boyish voice anywhere.

She gulped, brushing away the tears immediately.

"I didn't see you today, Morrie. Where were you?" she squealed, hoping he couldn't tell how small her voice had become.

"Are you crying?"

But he was smart.

"No—no, I'm not crying. Could you close the door?" she attempted to change the topic.

Mortmain shut the door.

"You're gonna get in trouble if you stay here," he warned her, standing lankly against the door.

"It's okay," Emberline said as he began to descend the stairs. "Papa won't say anything today." Her words felt like they were rebelling against her will.

Mortmain sat beside her, carefully inspecting the redness around her cheeks and the swelling of her eyes. Emberline felt his intuitive gaze fiercely on her face and turned away from the moonlight.

"You look tired," Mortmain repeated what she already knew.

"I'm bound to be tired if I have no control."

"Over Jenny?" he giggled. "Even Papa doesn't have control over her."

Emberline felt her heart lighten. He didn't say much, but even the sound of his laughter made her muscles ease.

"When I become rich, we'll never be sad again," Mortmain muttered.

She looked at her brother and frowned. "Do I remain sad and desperate until you get rich, Morrie?"

Mortmain nodded. He had a shrill laugh that echoed in her ears like a sweet symphony. Emberline couldn't help but smile in return.

"That's not very comforting to hear," she nudged her brother. "But I suppose it'll help to be rich," she adjusted to the lightness.

Emberline felt the chill of the night. She had been in such a strange state that she hadn't noticed the temperature dropping as it usually did during winter. She hoped Mortmain would say something, but he remained silent, fixated on the faint lights flickering in a house far away.

"How was your day?" she asked as she embraced him.

"It was good," he answered, but the tone of his voice said otherwise.

"Are you lying?" she asked.

Mortmain hesitated. He was used to speaking such atrocious lies, but Emberline was even more well-versed in the unsaid.

"What happened?" Emberline almost jumped. She was used to that answer but was especially upset at this hour.

"Some other time," he said and went silent.

Emberline flushed. It felt as though everything that pained her was threatening to unleash. "Morrie, tell me," she pleaded. Mortmain looked at his sister, who requested such a simple truth. She didn't demand it, but he felt that she wouldn't bear being kept away from his secret.

"Papa took you to Aunt Joan's house. Did something happen there?" she asked, widening her eyes. The two huddled together in the cold night, and the shared moment felt dreamlike.

Mortmain lowered his gaze. "I was chasing the cat in the lawn. I didn't hurt it; I was just chasing it away from the tomatoes. It was clawing the tomatoes, Ember," Mortmain explained in a low whisper. Emberline felt as though he would burst into tears. "And then Aunt Joan called me into the hall and hit me with a stick."

Emberline gasped. "That witch!" The shock was real, but the incident itself was not unusual. "Did you tell Papa?" she asked, furious.

"Papa just watched," he replied. Emberline felt as though she would burst. Her father had been reading the newspaper in the hall after returning from Aunt Joan's house, as though she hadn't terrorized her son over a lousy cat. "I'll talk to her myself then!" she croaked. "How dare she?" Emberline tried to suppress Mortmain's pain by making bold proclamations, though she knew well that she couldn't raise her voice at Aunt Joan.

She pulled him in for a tighter embrace. The warmth of his skin was comforting, but each time she remembered what had transpired, she felt cold all over again.