Bury Me(46)

My eyes are quickly scanning the photos since they are all pretty much the same, when something jumps out at me and I look back, realizing I inadvertently skipped over one photo that is not like the others.

I move closer and stand right in front of it. It’s a picture of this very room, and my eyes must have skipped over it because it’s black and white like all the rest and even the same size as the others. I’m not sure when it was taken, but I’m assuming it’s from before we moved in, since the walls in the photo are completely bare and the room is empty of any furniture. The only thing in the room is a safe, built into the wall where I currently stand. Putting the slip of paper between my teeth, I grab onto the frame of the picture and lift it off of its hook. My heartbeat picks up with excitement as soon as I see the safe hiding right behind the photo. Leaning the picture against the wall at my feet, I rip the paper from my mouth and reread the numbers. Holding my breath, I turn the dial on the combination lock in the same order as written on the paper.

Right thirteen, left twenty-four, right seven.

As soon as the arrow on the dial points to the number seven, I hear a soft click and the door to the safe pops open. Letting the paper in my hand flutter to the ground, I quickly open the door all the way, a little shocked that inside such a large safe is only one single manila folder, barely visible because it’s so flat and obviously not filled with too many papers.

Even though I expected this thing to be packed full of items, I know immediately that I found what I was looking for and that my mother actually told me something important, even if it was a riddle I had to figure out.

Sliding the thin folder out of the safe, I turn around and sit down on the floor right below it, pausing for a moment to listen for any noises indicating my father has returned. When I hear nothing but silence, I look down at the folder and see our last name printed on the tab from a typewriter.

Flipping it open, I see the words Gallow’s Hill Inmate Transfer Request printed at the top, and right beneath that on the very first line, the prisoner’s name is listed as Tobias Duskin. I try to remember if I’ve ever heard that name before, but I draw a blank, which doesn’t surprise me. Still I huff out an irritated breath.

I rapidly scan the page, stopping when I get to the box that lists the prisoner’s next of kin, my mouth dropping open in shock.

Margarita Duskin, mother, deceased.

Dimitri Duskin, father, deceased.

Tanner Duskin, brother.

Tobias Duskin was my father’s brother and my uncle, older than him by two years, according to his birthdate listed on the form. Why don’t I remember my parents ever mentioning the existence of an uncle? As far as I know, we don’t have any living relatives, my parents supposedly both being only children, and their parents passing on before I was born. At least they didn’t lie about the death of my grandparents, according to this paperwork, but why would they never tell me that I had an uncle? Butterflies flap around in my stomach when it occurs to me that I have an uncle whose name begins with the letter T. The letter that Beatrice was so adamant I remember and one more person to add to my list, even though I didn’t even realize he existed until just now.

Flipping through the few pages in the file, I find a couple of handwritten reports from doctors, guards, and the wardens before my father’s time, quickly understanding why my parents thought it was best to keep Tobias Duskin’s identity a secret, even if my mother felt the need to cryptically point me in the direction of this file right before she died. I’m not going to lie. Reading about this long-lost uncle, I suddenly feel like the disturbing thoughts I have and the urges I fantasize about in order to feel exhilarated and alive make a little more sense now, and I might have just found a reason for my behavior. It appears this type of thing runs in the family, although my uncle seems to have taken his urges to the next level, while I make sure mine remain only in my head.

Arrested at the age of eighteen for the brutal slaying of both his parents with a hammer while they slept peacefully in their beds, then going on to murder three more innocent bystanders on his way out of town, Tobias Duskin confessed to the murders and was immediately sentenced to life in prison. He wasn’t exactly a model prisoner, according to his record, constantly starting fights and spending the majority of his time in solitary confinement, even killing three other prisoners while he was in here.

When this placed closed a few years after I was born, all 1,900 prisoners were bused to various prisons, some to the new one built just an hour away from here, and others to ones in bordering states. Assuming my uncle was moved with everyone else when the doors closed, I get to the final page of the file that lists the date of his transfer and start to get an uneasy feeling as I think about everything I’ve learned so far about myself, my life, and that of my parents and their behavior with me and with each other.