Critique is appreciated. This is a little old, so there's stuff now I would definitely change, but it's one of my best.

Funeral Weather

The small child ran up and down the harshly illuminated hospital corridor. His trainers were too big for him, and occasionally slipped away from his heels, slapping on the hard, tiled floor. He would push himself along on the marble, sliding along until a member of staff walked past; at that point he would hastily stumble to his feet, grinning with a face that spoke of very little innocence. Hand after hand would ruffle his brown hair, which he would hastily shake back into position, away from his eyes, before ducking away from the hand in question.

He soon bored of that game, and instead sat down on one of the padded beige chairs. They were straight-backed and very old; all had stuffing protruding through rips in the fabric. He perched himself on the edge of one of these, his feet suspended off the floor. He swung them backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, whilst inspecting his blue socks. He pulled the socks up and scrunched them down several times, before dismissing either of these; he pulled off his trainers and socks, letting them fall to the floor. Realising that perhaps it was not best to leave them there, he walked up to the desk and, standing on tip-toe, pushed the bundle on top of it.

Just as the barefoot little boy turned around, the doors opened. They swung in and out a number of times before stopping to rest. Two nurses, dressed a starched pale blue uniform, walked through the doors swiftly, talking in low, fast voices. The younger nurse, with black hair, paused to glance at the child. She stared at him for a moment longer, and then burst into tears. The other one, with a look of panic and concern, looked away from the boy and led the black haired nurse down the corridor. He stared curiously after them, immediately sensing that something had gone wrong. He slowly entered through the doors himself.

Inside, it was much more spacious with a higher ceiling. The white brightness still pierced his eyes, and the stifling, starched air still hung around him. In the corner stood a small cot with transparent sides. The boy crept forward, staring at the small, tiny pink creature that slept inside. Pressing a round, curious face against the side, the child whispered… “Hello.” He waited for the little miracle for respond. Suddenly a hand was placed on his shoulder. He turned to see his father, whose face was creased and glistening.
“Mark.”

Finally seeing a white sheet being spread over the figure that lay limp on the bed, Mark opened his mouth, and screamed.

____________________


Mrs Langley smiled at the two newcomers. The older one had fair hair and a round face. The younger one had dark hair that flopped over his eyes, and shifted his feet uncertainly. He was holding his older brother’s hand with a firm grip. They stood in the middle of the circle and many eyes stared at them. The elder boy’s eyes darted from face to face uncomfortably. He spoke.
“I’m Mark. I’m seven. And this is-,” Mrs Langley intercepted.
“I’m sure this young lad has a voice of his own.”
Mark scowled at her but shut his mouth. The plump, jolly woman pretended to take no notice and instead turned to the smaller child. A large woman in her fifties, she wore a vast knitted jumper that rose, fell and writhed as her impressively huge stomach rolled with each heaving, rasping breath. Thick glasses were uselessly perched at the tip of her nose. “Now, what’s your name?”
The little boy looked up with wide eyes. He spoke in a clipped, small, factual squeak.
“Mark.”
“No, that’s your brother’s name. What’s your name?” The small boy just stared at her blankly. She coughed. Mark sighed.
“His name’s Ben.” He spoke with mild amusement. He took his brother and pulled his hand. They walked out of the circle and both curled on bean bags in the corner of the room. Mark picked out a book for Ben. Mrs Langley was quite shocked by children unwilling to co-operate in the nice, quiet manner she expected. She came over to them. She decided to be gentle.
“Are you sure you don’t want to play with the other children?” Mark paused in his reading and gazed over at the group of small persons across the room.
“No, not really.” Mrs Langley drew in a breath.
“Well!” She turned and stalked away.
Mark felt a small poke in his shoulder. Ben was smiling at him, with that quiet, glowing grin of his. Mark smiled back. This was how they liked it.

After the small school had closed, Mark helped Ben with his coat. He took his hand again and gave Ben his lunch box. They walked out of the school and down the lane. They walked through the village and passed the stream. Over the bridge and round the corner where the red phone box sat. Pass the orchard and the elm trees. They reached a small, grimy cottage. The front garden was alive with weeds and creatures; it was thick, dark, and writhing with nettles. The cottage itself has dusty windows, creaking floorboards and sagging ceilings. Putrid yellow ceilings; each room stunk of smoke and despair. Mark stopped Ben at the end of the path. He whispered in his ear softly.

“When we come in, Daddy will wake up. Daddy will be angry.”
“Why will Daddy be angry?”
“Because that’s what Daddies are. Angry.” Mark knew this to be a fact.
“Oh.”
“When Daddy is angry, he may try and hit us. So, as soon as we enter the door, you have to run up the stairs as fast as you can. Don’t you dare stop ‘till you’ve reached the attic and shut the door. And don’t you dare come out, either, until it’s quiet. When it’s quiet, go straight to your room. What do you do in your room?”
“Shut the door and don’t make a sound.” Ben was used to this routine.
“Good.”
They walked up the rest of the cracked pavement to the cottage. Mark placed a hand on the door knob. “Ready?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Ben whispered back.
They opened the door.

____________________

“Lousy kid!”
Mark fell on his back with the third blow. He raised a hand and felt cool, thick blood trickle from his forehead. Suddenly, one of the heavy boots his father wore struck his side, and he curled up in a ball and moaned in pain. More blows rained down on him. Fists struck his stomach, legs and head. He clutched his abdomen harder, trying to squeeze out the pain. His father suddenly picked up a chair and ripped off one of its legs. He delivered one final, fatal blow on Mark’s leg, causing him to howl with pain. He sobbed, his tears intermingling with the blood that was coursing down his face. His father stormed out of the room, muttering drunken curses.

Moments later, Ben was there. He gasped at the state of his brother. His leg was twisted into a position it wasn’t supposed to be in, and the pool of strong, red, vile liquid was spreading silently across the floor. Mark lay unconscious because of the ever increasing pain. Ben felt tears on his cheeks. He knew he had to do something. The man who had just collapsed, unconscious on the floor, hadn’t paid any bills for weeks; phoning for help was out of the question. Without even taking a coat, Ben ran outside into the pouring rain.

It took him half an hour to run all the way to the village. He arrived soaking wet and mentally and physically exhausted. He made it to the police station, and they sent an ambulance straight away, while the weak boy sat in the back. When they arrived back at the condemned cottage, Ben was concerned to see a police car as well. He pulled the towel tighter around him, and spoke to the police officer next to him.
“They’re not going to do anything to my Dad, are they?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are they going to take him away?”
The officer sighed.
“I’m afraid it may come to that. But it’s for the best...”
Ben started to sob. Through fear, despair, and happiness.

Moments later, Ben was able to see his brother being placed onto a stretcher. Before they closed the doors, Mark opened his mauve and red blotched arms. Ben ran forward and squeezed him, sobbing uncontrollably. Mark pushed him away, weak but still smiling. He was obviously in a lot of pain.
“Hey, hey! You’re getting me all wet, buddy!” Ben gave a short laugh and wiped away his tears. Mark looked more serious for a moment.
“You saved my life. One day I’ll save yours.”
Ben knew it was a promise.

They hugged one last time, before the ambulance drove off into the night.

_____________________


In the heavy summer heat, Brown’s comprehensive school was in no state to work. As July dragged on, the hazy, heavy air lay over the grounds of the school like a stifling thermal shell. The sun beat down on the tarmac, turning the grass brown and drying out the biology pond. The heat soaked into every body, mind, and spirit of pupils and staff alike. Drowsy and shining with a film of sweat, every person in the crowded London school just wanted the end of term to arrive.

“Now, boys, copy the notes from the board. Today we start the nitrogen cycle, and- Jones, put that down!” The exasperated Biology teacher stopped in mid-speech to toss his pen down and yell across the room. At the back bench, a group of teenagers had tried to keep boredom at bay by pouring a variety of unknown chemicals into a flask, and were about to secure it above a Bunsen burner. The teacher gave a lingering look, too hot to take any action, and the equally roasted teenagers poured the flask’s contents down the sink. At the front bench, Ben gave a quiet unheard moan and slumped his head onto the desk. He could take no more. Just at that moment, a knock sounded at the door. Twenty seven heads turned to face the sound, pleased to welcome any kind of distraction from their work. The teacher, running a hand through his damp hair, mumbled feebly. “In.”

Mark pushed open the door and poked his head round it. “Sir, I’ve come for Ben.” The teacher looked confused for a second and then a sudden flash of knowing crossed his face. “Ah, yes, of course. Ben, go.” Ben slid hastily off his seat and dashed out of the room. Mark nodded to the teacher, and then closed the door. The class behind it returned, as one, back to their heat-induced slumber.

In the corridor, which was considerably cooler, Ben loosened his tie anyway and shoved his hands deep into both pockets. Mark signed them both out in the school’s register, and then the two of them collected their things. Out in the car park, Mark took out the keys for his friend’s battered old car, which he had just learnt to drive. He’d turned seventeen in the winter. Ben put his stuff in the boot of the car, and was about to slide into the passenger seat when Mark stopped him. He was standing with one hand, tapping the roof of the car uncertainly. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Ben looked him straight in the eye. “I’m sure.” Mark nodded in reply. Both boys got into the car, and began the long two hour drive to the county prison.

They arrived at two in the afternoon, shortly after visiting hours had started. They entered the dark, grim building that stank of sweat and were searched twice. One of the guards, unspeaking, led them down a long hallway to the large visitor’s centre. A long row of tables ran down the middle of the room; visitors sat one side, the prisoners sat on the other. Guards listened in on conversations and circled the tables, there were five in total. This was the first time that the boys would see their father in six years. After his original short spell for child abuse, he had become seriously involved with a ring of drug dealers. He said he didn’t regret it.

The guard directed Mark and Ben to a table at the end. Unspeaking, they went and sat down, barely looking across the wooden surface. Someone cleared their throat. “Boys...”Upon hearing that voice, a shiver down his spine forced Ben to snap his neck upwards, and to look his father in the face. He saw two, empty eyes, embedded into dark sockets; the sockets were framed by a sagging, wrinkled face. Clumps of grey air adorned his head. He gave a wheezing cough. Ben was shocked, but also disgusted. He glanced at Mark. His brother reached across the table; his look was nothing but that of concern.
“How are you, dad?” The fading figure across the table barely responded. He just gave a raking cough and looked down.
“You shouldn’t even be here…”
Mark was immediately hurt. “Dad, we want to be here. You need us here. We can work this out.”
Ben’s face remained cold and empty, still staring at his father.
Mark spoke again. “This councillor at school was talking to us. She said it would help to write our feelings down… so Ben’s been keeping a diary.”
Ben’s eyes snapped to his brother’s, then back to his father’s, feeling unsure. Then he shrugged and reached into his jeans’ pocket. The prisoner seemed more interested and he leant forward. “Go ahead… son.”
Ben sneered, but opened a tattered notebook at a previous page. Clearing his throat, he began to read aloud from the black, smudged scrawl:

February third.
I thought about mum today. I wondered what it would be like to have had one. I think about her hair, her eyes, her smile. I invent a parent in my head, just like that. It’s so easy, it seems, to achieve parenthood from just your head. A whole parent, out of nothing. It’s so sad that I don’t even have one.

A sharp breath from across the table.

I don’t have a parent. I never had one. I had a childhood of fear, uncertainty, and deprivation. I even thought it was normal. When I finally experience life, when we finally break free, I find that I’m wrong. That there is a world of happiness. There is a world of hope, freedom and of the right to achieve all of this. Finally, all the barriers are gone. I used to love my father. I used to want my dad. A dad. I wanted him to be there, because dads are supposed to be there. But how can I achieve this new world with him? I cannot. When I leave that shell, that tempestuous pit, I find out why I have no life of my own. They tell me my dad’s completely fucked. Now I can see it. I am no longer blind. I hate my father. I loathe the very thought of the plague of my life. I used to long for his presence. Now I can tell you this, ‘dad’, I hope- and pray- that you won’t return at all.

Slamming the book shut, Ben left the room.
Back at the table, the man swallowed, and stopped Mark from speaking.
“He’s right.”


_______________________________________________
Ben gave a final effort to heave the armchair up the last step. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and the heat beat down on his sweaty back and palms. He lost his balance, and managed to have the armchair land on his foot. He yowled with pain and grabbed his foot and hopped up and down. Just has he was letting out a stream of swear words Mark appeared. He had a half empty beer bottle in one hand and had the other arm around a young blonde girl. He took a drag from a cigarette, letting the smoke softly escape from his lips, drifting off into the smothering air. At least it wasn’t crack. He playfully punched Ben in the arm.
“Language!” he cried and feigned shock. Ben didn’t smile.
“You know, I wouldn’t be doing this you know if you started doing some work and stopped screwing every female you lay your eyes on!” He turned to the girl who was glaring at him. “By the way, you’re the third one this week. I think you will still be able to find that brunette’s bra still in the kitchen sink!”

She abruptly whacked Mark’s arm off her shoulder, shoved him into the wall, and stormed down the stairs. Just before she stalked round the corner, she turned round and screamed at him. “And here’s your fucking gum!” She spat a pink splodge that landed, with incredible accuracy, on the tip of Mark’s freckled nose. She flipped him off then left. Mark, red faced, turned towards Ben with his arms outstretched. Ben grinned. “Oh, you want to give your little brother a hug?” He darted into the flat, slammed the door and turned the key in the lock. The ‘click’ only enraged Mark more, and he pounded on the door.
“Ben, when I get in here, you’re DEAD! Open up! Come on.... Open the door you little fuck!”
“Language, Mark! What kind of example are you setting?”

He collapsed on the floor, howling with laughter. Sure, Mark would get in eventually, and then in the morning he probably wouldn’t be able to feel his legs, but he felt it was worth it. They had been in the council flat for about a month, since Mark had turned eighteen and had left their foster home. Ben was allowed to stay with him, but they had visits from the social worker. The way Mark was behaving, he saw himself going back in less than a week.

Just then, there was a short tap on the door. Mark’s voice came through.
“Ben. Open the door.”
Ben opened. Mark was standing there holding a letter in his hands. His face was pale.
“It’s Dad. He’s in hospital... and he’s dying.”
Ben read the letter quickly.
“Well, at least it’s a nice day for a funeral.”
Mark didn’t laugh.


_____________________________________________




Mark shifted the heavy rucksack on his shoulders, grimacing as it rubbed against the huge, fully-formed blister on his left shoulder blade. Shutting his eyes, he set off again in the frosty December cold. The others were far ahead, and he knew that he was going to pay for his weakness later. Now he was nineteen, and since his father's death he realised he had to do something with his life. Before he ended up like his dad. Now he considered that joining the army was maybe not the best thing he could have done. The constant hiking, marching, cleaning, and shouting was taking its toll. Although Mark had grown taller, he was paler and his face had a gaunt look about it.

Several hours later, he arrived back at camp. The drill sergeant was standing waiting outside. The sweat was running down Mark's face as he clicked his heels together and stood to attention. The sergeant nodded.
"Wright, you gotta visitor. This way."
Mark dumped his rucksack and followed the sergeant. Who could it be? He was a little taken aback when he saw the figure hunched up on a bench.

"Ben? What are you doing here?"
His brother looked terrible. Incredibly pale and clammy. He stared at Mark.
"Mark... why? Why did you join up?"
"I had a lot of things on my mind… I just wanted to let stuff go.”
“More like hide.”
Mark looked away. Ben clasped his hands. Mark saw there was something deeper going on; Ben didn’t hold a grudge against him. He sat down besides his brother.
"What's happening, Ben?"
Ben let out a sob. "I just... can't face it anymore. I've done something terrible, Mark. Something really bad." His eyes swelled with fear.
"Ben..."
Ben grasped his brother by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.
"Mark, I killed Dad."
Mark groaned and looked away. He could see what was happening. Ben continued.
"If it wasn't for me fetching the stupid bloody police, Dad would still be here. Prison tore him apart, and I did that."
Mark breathed heavily.
"Ben, you had to do it. If you hadn't done it-,”
"A life for a life. Mark, you promised to save my life one day. You don't have to. I saved your life, but murdered Dad. You don’t have to do anything for me. And I don’t want you to."
"Dad was already torn up inside, Ben. When mum died, he just lost it. You can’t blame it on the bloody prison. I know it sounds harsh, but he deserved it, for what he did to us both."
Ben wasn’t convinced, and gave a short, bitter laugh. "And, why did mum die? Because I was born. There, you see."
Mark closed his eyes.
"Ben, no matter what the hell you say, I'm not about to blame you for what happened to Dad. Bye, Ben."
"Not so fast."
He stood up and looked his brother straight in the eyes.

"If you're joining the army, I am too."
"You're only seventeen!"
"I look eighteen."
"No way, Ben. I'm your brother. You can't do it. What if there’s a war, and you get killed?"
Ben glared. He was a stubborn four year old once again.
"Oh yeah? And who's gonna stop me?"




There was yet another rip of machine gun fire as the two men lay in the mud. The sky rolled and roared fiercely, and soon the rain came pouring down. It ran down their faces in streams, mingling with the sweat, tears and blood. One of them shifted their helmet and pulled a branch aside. The place was teaming with snipers, and he knew they had to get out soon. The mud rose around them as the rain got heavier. He nudged his brother. “This is useless. On the count of three…”
The other nodded. His mouth was dry. This was their only chance. But it wasn’t much of a chance.
He licked his lips.
“1.”
He closed his eyes.
“2.”
He gripped his gun.
“3.”

In a second, they were both dashing through the trees, their blood pounding. The edge was in sight. Away from the snipers. They kept going. The world around them blurred. Suddenly there was a shot. One of them collapsed, clutching their leg. They screamed in pain. They called to the other. But the other brother kept going. Kept running. He ignored the calls. Then he squinted as he burst into the open, into home territory. He turned. He heard the final, echoing shot.

The other man stopped calling.






The small group of mourners dressed in black looked bizarre against the sunny field. They shuffled awkwardly in their stuffy black clothing. They crowded around the small grave while the Vicar said a few words. No one was crying. After a few minutes the Vicar closed the bible and led the way up to the church. One man remained. He had been lying on the soft grass nearby during the service. He sat up and put his head his hands, ran them through his hair. He slowly stood up and walked over to the gravestone, tracing his fingers over the engraving. He studied the grave for sometime. Finally he looked up to the sun, and squinted. Tears rolled down his face yet again. His voice choked; he finally threw a bouquet of flowers at the foot of the stone.

“Nice day for a funeral, little brother.”

He walked up to the church, his hands in his pockets.

It's on page 2... so I can give it a bump, right? o.o;

Fell back to page 2 again.

Generally bumping is frowned apon here. Alot of lit forum readers know they may need to go back, and there arent that many pages here.

right so my comments(changes in italics):
O.O Poor boy!
I like them as a pair :3
Rain? When did it start raining?
. Clumps of grey hair adorned his head.
Just as he was letting out a stream of swear words Mark appeared.
I love the story- nice and dark, cynical, but it’s too choppy. I almost read it as a series of flashbacks, but not quite. There should be more transitions between the stories, the reader doesn’t know what will happen next, but its in an abrupt, half hazard manner.