text: I look at me and her. And him. Back when things were good. Back when he was a boy. Back when things were normal. Back when things made sense. Back when I still felt warm inside. So unlike now. I put the picture frame down, lean back in my chair, and take a swig of whiskey. I try to push away the memories. But they do not yield. They push forth until they engulf my mind, and I feel tears begin to form in my eyes. I try to wipe them away. But they keep on coming. Each one is larger than the last. The memories don't want to go away. Not today. Today they mean business. I get up and walk out of the living room. Then I slowly make my way up the stairs and drop the whiskey bottle on the seventh step. I'm now on the second floor, staring into the open doorway of my bedroom. Where there was once a double bed, there is now a single, dirty mattress on a rickety frame. My bedroom used to be alive. But now, much like all the other rooms in the house, it was just a desolate skeleton of what once was. I barely even slept in there anymore. I mostly just slept in my recliner. Well, being passed out is more like it. I turn away from my bedroom and I look at the door on the other end of the hall. His room. Hesitantly, I approach. I stand there for a few seconds, quietly staring at it. I run my hand down my unkempt face, my beard prickling my palm. And then I rest my palm on the door. I glance down at the knob. I reach for it but then stay my hand. I stand there, looking at my slightly shaking hand. I shut my eyes tightly, and take a deep breath. I'm about to do something I haven't done in a very long time. I grab the knob and turn it. The door opens and I look into the dark room of my son. I take a single step inside, and I switch on the light. It's exactly as he left it. That night. I rub my red eyes and I step fully into his room and sit on his bed. I scan everything in his room. The posters. The clothes are strewn on the floor. The old toy rack. The shelves are stacked with various things. The video game console. Underneath his bed, I see his favourite book from when he was a young child. A book about prehistoric life. He loved dinosaurs. As I stare at the book, I do something I haven't done in a very long time. I smile. It's a small one. But one regardless. I open the book and I start reading it out loud. Every single page. Every single little detail. As I read, I glance at my side, expecting to see him there, wide-eyed, fascinated, taking in every single word and phrase. But he isn't there. I dropped the book on the floor, and I fell atop my son's bed. And I see the memory I hated the most, begin to take shape in my mind. Our annual summer barbecue was two days away. We thought we'd gotten everything ready. But it turned out that we hadn't bought enough sodas. My boy was sixteen, and he offered to head back to the store to buy some more. We gave him the money and off he went. He was talking to the cashier when the bastard barged into the store with a handgun. He shot my boy through the head, and he shot the cashier, and he shot two other teenagers who were there too. The two teens survived their injuries, and the cashier did too. But my boy, my sweet little boy... he didn't. That fucking gunman didn't even take anything. He just shot them all and ran off. He luckily didn't get far though. Some cops managed to intercept him, and he got torn apart in the resulting shootout. God, the memory of the morgue. My wife crying on my shoulder. My son laying on that metal table with a hole in his head. We didn't want to believe it was him. But lying to yourself isn't healthy. You had the face the cold, hard truth. No matter how awful it was. Our son was gone forever. Our marriage fell apart afterward. We just couldn't go on. We were both constant reminders to each other. Constant reminders of what we'd lost. I loved that woman. That beautiful, incredible woman. But I didn't want to cause her any more pain. And she didn't want to cause me any more pain. This all happened five years ago. For five years I've been alone. Hiding away from everything. Hiding away from all the memories and the pain. But today, I did something I thought I'd never do. I faced them both. The memories and the pain. And I finally stepped into my son's room after so long. And I managed to smile. I pick the book back up and put it on top of my son's bed. And then I walk to the door and shut off the light.