I was six years old when I first started begging my parents for a baby brother. I was lonely at home, as both of them worked long hours, and I didn’t have many friends at school; not that I was allowed to spend any time with them outside of school anyway. My parents were absent and strict, which was a combination that made for a very boring childhood for me.
So, when I figured out that a sibling would mean someone to play with, I was of course very excited and tried to negotiate the only way six year old me knew how to-promising to tidy my room, eat my vegetables, do my homework. But nothing I said ever made them budge even the slightest. Frustrated after what felt like the sixth millionth time I’d been rejected, I finally gave up and went to, I don’t know, kick rocks or whatever else my younger self had to do to be entertained, while my parents left for work yet again. Maybe I could’ve secretly had friends round while they weren’t home, but my innocent little do-gooder mind never dreamt of something so rebellious, not until it was too late, anyway.
When I was twelve, my father died in a fatal car crash on his daily commute to the office. According to my mother, he was dead before the paramedics even arrived on scene; and from what I’ve been told, it was a nasty crash that was basically impossible to survive.
Of course, I grieved and mourned and felt lost like any person would, but my mother…well, she was something else. She didn’t even seem upset at first, as if his death was the best thing that could’ve happened to her. I was confused, but I didn’t question it; grief affects people in different ways, after all. But when she started asking me if I still wanted a brother, then I knew something really was up.
I suspected she was cheating on him, and maybe that’s why she was so unfazed by his passing. Angry didn’t even begin to describe how I felt, but the reality was so, so much worse than I ever could’ve expected.
Venturing into the basement one day to search for a lost console or something, I can’t even remember what now, I first saw a huge block of something grey, cold and rock-solid in the middle of the room, a tray of strange tools beside it. Small hammers, chisels, even knives…but still, it didn’t click.
It took her many years to complete her creation, and she was livid whenever she caught me investigating, so I had to learn to be sneaky. At first, I didn’t know what she was doing, but over time, it became obvious she was carving something from the stone-that’s what it was, I know because I asked her. She wouldn’t tell me anything else.
The statue gradually began to take the shape of a small boy, very intricately detailed, down to the textures of his skin and each individual hair on his head. My mother took great care to ensure he was perfect, it seemed.
When I was sixteen, she introduced me to Austin.
“Connor, meet your brother, Austin.” She smiled expectantly.
I looked in horror at the lifelike kid in front of me. Blinking and breathing though he was, I knew it was artificial, and his vibrant emerald-green eyes didn’t belong to him, his clothes and hair and skin didn’t belong to him. I was nauseated, but I could see how happy he made my mother, so I had to play along.
“H-hi….Austin.” I stammered.
“Connor.” He nodded his head and held out a hand to shake. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn’t. How was he so smooth, so flawless? It just wasn’t right.
Don’t ask me how I knew he was the boy from the carving, because I don’t know, I just did. I had seen that face preserved in stone for years, even though now it was colourful and animated. It sent chills down my spine and made my skin crawl.
After all these years, I’ve moved far, far away from my childhood home, and good riddance. Austin still haunts my dreams to this day. Though I’m still lonely, I know I’ll never wish for a brother again. A few months ago, it finally clicked where the I’ve seen Austin’s parts before; he looks just like my dead father.
And I’m only now starting to wonder if my beating heart is sending blood round my body, or stone.