Rain assaulted the sky light above the kitchen, creating a harsh theme song for the already gray morning. The small house was dark as I walk down the steep stairs, my eyes clouded with sleep. I shuffle into the kitchen, methodically turning on the coffee pot. The counters have a growing layer of dust blanketing them, just like the rest of the house.


A loud beep breaks the silence, like a piercing cry, forcing me to move, to live. The cold tile floor feels like ice on my bare feet as I stumble to the back to the coffee pot.

Open the cabinet.
Get a mug.
Get the coffee.
Pour it into the mug.
Attempt to enjoy.

I can practically do the routine with my eyes closed by now. I turn and look into the living room, half expecting him to be sitting in his over-sized chair, asking for his coffee as well. I expect to see that goofy smile of his, the one that I fell in love with, on his face. But the chair is empty, for it is just another thing collecting dust. Clutching the hot mug between my cold fingers I start my journey up the stairs. The hallway seems longer than usual as I walk into our, my room. A calendar hangs next to the door, marking the date with big, harsh, red numbers.

December 17. Four months.


The phones loud ring cuts my tears short. Let it ring, I think to myself. The ringing subdues and I walk over to the cell phone. It feels abnormal in my hands.

12 voice mails.

They will all say the same thing. They will say that said caller is sorry for my loss, that they understand what I am feeling. They will say that they have lost a grandparent, or a parent, or even a sibling. It will all be lies though. Fake sympathy from fake friends.


I walk into the hallway and face the door to the bathroom, slowly turning the knob.
Four months.

The door creaks open, shedding dull light into the small narrow room. Mt face is distorted in the mirror. Dark hair falls around a strange face, while unfamiliar green eyes stare back.
He looked so peaceful. His brown curls silhouetting his face.

My gaze wanders to the medicine cabinet, polished, nest, and uniform.



Suddenly he is there again, bottles strewn around his still body.

My throat begins to close. My heart begins to race. Tears are welling in my eyes and I let a sob rip through my thin frame. The sobs come faster now, shaking my body as I stumble out of the bathroom. Suddenly the house feels tiny, with nowhere to hide, nowhere to go to escape the pain that swirls like a ghost. I manage to slam the door shut, leaving him alone.

They will all say the same thing.
“He would want you to continue your life. He wouldn’t want you to be like this.”
But I don’t, and they don’t, know what he wanted. We don’t know what he wants, and we never will.