Brahms: Unmasked

Fresh Start

I bit my fingernails from my chair, sitting amongst the crowd, Brahms staring across at me. Brahms rose slowly, two policemen stood tall beside him. This is it.
Guilty.
The judge gives a sentence. Your stomach is in knots. Your mouth is silent.
"25 years" minimum. How is Brahms to cope? Im not sure he even understands what this means for him.
"Take him down" the judge said, as the two policemen guided Brahms out of the courtroom and into a van. I cried. I screamed. I begged for them to let him go. But my cries were helpless. I was helpless.

~5 years on~
I stood in the kitchen, washing up leftover dishes as i glanced out of the window. It was open, so i felt the summer paradise breeze on my face, as my family were sat in the garden nearby.
Everything reminds you of him. Just the little things like having play fights with the bubbles in the sink, splashing each other with water, it all came flooding back. Nothing stops you thinking of him.
I carried out some food and drinks into the garden and sat down.
"So, you've inherited this beautiful architecture Greta?" my mother asked.
"Yes I guess so, its wonderful isn't it?" I asked.
Simplistically, I didn't care for the house, or the money. I just wanted Brahms back.

My family left shortly after the sun had set. It felt more lonely and isolating than ever. Wandering around in a large, old fashioned vintage mansion that wasn't really mine. I still heard the voices of the little girl Brahms was friends with as a child. They didn't scare me anymore. The thought of dying alone scared me more.

His secret lair in the walls was left untouched. I couldn't bare to go back in there. Not without Brahms.
A new house was in progress of being built next door to the mansion, and they wanted parts of theres to link to ours. That would mean the walls have to go. No one could ever find out. This was Brahms' space.
Parts of me wonder whether he's still alive in his cell. But then I remember his strength and slenderness and the countless times he protected me from the world. "He's fine surely" I questioned.

~A week into prison~

Four walls. Prison bars. Blood and sweat. Trapped.
I sat on the edge of my rusted, stained, bloodied bed, blood dripping onto my knuckles from my head.
I stood up and glared into the dirtied mirror. Purple, disfigured bruising surrounded both my eyes, blood dribbling from my lip. Not even an inch of skin on my body. Just bone.
Greta. I'm never going to see her again. Her screams in the courtroom ran through my veins. No one had ever cared about me that much. But maybe I was put here for a reason. To pay for what I've done.
The only thing that confused me was why everyone was speaking Russian...