I don't know what happened on the 19th. I don't ever remember posting that. Did I?

I've been holed up in this house, going through some of the old rooms, finding odd things, but none of them really mattered. The attic is next. I'm afraid of going up there, because I don't know what I'll find. I haven't been up there since Charles died.

I was seventeen. He was twenty-four. Since he was actually born in England, he was allowed to join the Royal Air Force. So he did. He always wanted to be a pilot. Something about getting up high and in the clouds, a place where no one could touch him. He loved it.

It was his ninth flight that week. I don't know why he was so anxious to get up high. His commanding Lieutenant, Stephen Richmond, told him not to fly that day. Turbulence, I think it was. Besides, Charles was tired. Very tired. I had talked to him on the phone the day before, and he just sounded fatigued. He needed to rest, but his mind wouldn't let him. He wanted to get up in the air. Where he was safe.

Later that day, my mum got a call from Lieutenant Richmond. I was sitting in the kitchen listening to them talk. She started out quiet. Then, she started crying, reeling in to hysterics. I got up and took the phone from her, guiding her to a chair so I could talk with the Lieutenant. Yeah, sad enough, I remember that call.

Me: "Lieutenant? It's Will. We've talked before. What's going..."
Richmond: "Oh, yes. William. Charles' brother, yeah? You see, something terrible has happened."
Me: "What happened to him?"
Richmond: (he heaved a sigh) "We think Charles didn't check his plane before he took off in it. His gas was low and the landing gear needed some repairs. It was odd, because usually he was the best at making sure his plane was always inspected and in perfect condition for flight."
Me: "It couldn't have been his fault, was it?"
Richmond: "We also think his gauges were malfunctioning. It was just a bad day to go flying. Everything that would or could have gone wrong did. I... am terribly sorry for your loss."

He told me of the arrangements for his remains to be shipped here to us, where we could give him a proper burial. My mum was distraught for a long time after that. Gregory... wasn't fazed.

I... Gregory wasn't really a great father. He had detachment issues, and though he didn't show it, he... had quite a way of showing it.

Any way, the attic. Tomorrow.

But I'm wondering...

Should I start running? Like M says?


Adieu,
William A. Gordon