In the Back of the Mind - a short story

When they opened the door, Jerry and Dennis found only horror.  Inside the tomb was a cascade of broken heirlooms, picture frames, and the like.  Both men stepped in side, and it was as though it was a portal in time, as memories flooded there minds like a deluge.  In one corner Jerry saw his mother rocking him in her old dusty rocking chair, well he recalled it was only dusty later in life, after she passed, the memories were meshed together.  Upon her face she wore the expression she was buried in, like it was glued there, but the rest of her was very much as he recalled.  She rocked him back and forth humming a sweet little tune, as if a broken record replaying over and over again, she never quite finished the last word, till she was jumping into the next one, and starting all the way over from the beginning.  Jerry stepped in closer to examine his younger self, a young Jerry who sucked on his thumb as if it might be gone tomorrow, and the way it never strayed from his mouth, it seemed like it'd never last the day.
Dennis on the other hand saw his father.  A bottle of scotch in one hand, a stark gray business suit and a faded red tie, his arm resting over the mantle, and a blue fire glowing cold in the stone worked fire place.   His father was giving one his famous speeches, about responsibility and pride, and how the world was headed toward hellfire.  Dennis thought he was talking to him, but then young Dennis materialized out of the air, as if he were stepping through fog.  Their father placed his arm on Dennis' shoulder, and put down the drink he had been holding.  Young Dennis was so innocent, and looked on in such dumbfounded-ness, as their father reached for a red hot poker that had been resting in the fire.  Dennis' fingers had already reached for the scar on his cheek, he knew what was coming next, he'd always remembered.  On impulse he lunged forward, and grabbed the memory father's arm and lifted it back.  Or so he thought.  As hard as he pulled the arm wouldn't budge.  And the poker was pressed upon the young boys face.
Jerry looked over at the screams of his brother, as Dennis punched air.  Cursed it, and belittled it, and reminded it that it deserved was punishment too.  Jerry shook his head, he couldn't see the memory, for Jerry had been a man, when Dennis was just a boy.  He had heard of course, during drunken breakdowns into broken conversation of the stories of the days he wasn't there.  Neither was their mother.  And every time Jerry visited thereafter the chair was never used.  Dust piled upon it, and when a breeze rolled through the house, it brushed upon the chair just enough, that Jerry swore he'd start believing in ghosts.
Dennis' anger subsided, he let his memory father go, and told his memory self to hold on.  He told him that one day he'd have the love of his wife, what he didn't tell her was that she would leave him, ten years into marriage, and take all four kids with her.  He wouldn't tell the boy that he would work hard to care for the kids, that he would never see again.  And he would leave out the part where he beat her, his younger self didn't need to know that at all.
Both brothers reunited by the coffin in the center, inside was a man, and a woman.  There mother and father, and the mausoleum they built.  Placing one hand on his brothers back, Jerry stroked it softly, and apologized as he done before.  He had never come back, and for that he felt guilty.  And for years he helped keep his brother afloat.  He himself had taken a lover, a man by the name of Gil.  He was happy with his man, and wished his mother had known him too.  For years Jerry lived in complete blindness to the horrors his younger brother endured at home, he waited on Gil hand and foot, letting their love flood his time. 
Dennis knew his brother back then, sort of.  Whenever father would let him visit, and he liked Gil who use to carry him on his shoulders, and throw an old baseball around.  But it was always in secret and never at home.  On those loving days when his brother and his friend would surprise him in town.  They'd spend hours together playing catch, and sometimes simply talking.  Their father had met Gil only once, and once was enough for that old bastard man.
Dennis had married a woman named Claire, she was good to him, and tried as hard as she could to make him happy.  But what Dennis saw in her was nothing, for his own mother was never there.  At first he thought he'd find someone unlike his mother, who was always absent, quiet and deceased.  Clair was alive, constant, and loud, and in good ways.  She was full of life, till she became his wife, and then all went to hell.  Through eight more years and three more kids they'd tried to make it work.  And sometimes it did, but Dennis knew a few bright days were not enough to keep the demons at bay.  She was right to leave, and Dennis was right to be angry, he came to terms with it when he died a few years later, with a shotgun against his cheek.
Jerry lived long, he lived good, and with regret.  He wished as he may, and he wished as he might, he could have taken away that sore, that blight on his brothers soul.  And Jerry lived a long life, full of love with his partner Gill, and there were arguments and blaming, loving and comforting, it was bittersweet, and mostly just sweet.  Gil when first, and shortly after, maybe two or three days, Jerry followed.  When he died he was grey.  But when he awoke in this place he was young again.
Now here they were together, taking it all in, Dennis never entered, he sat in the dark and in the void, till his brother arrived to hold his hand.  And that's what Jerry did, and together they endured the life flash together and Jerry had wished it always had been, and Dennis was okay, not happy, but just okay, and that was good.