returned to the room in which he sat, his gaze now fixed on the pictures hanging
from the wall. They were mostly
pictures of Chris and Cindy from when both were young.
Pictures she herself had put up.
Chris had added a few after she passed of the children, but none of
himself. It was as if time had
stopped for him the day she died.
He only wanted to remember himself as he was back then.
When she was with him. And
he was happy.
Looking deeply into her eyes within one of the frames, he whispered
softly, “I’m sorry sweetheart.”
She was only twenty four years old when the picture was taken. Her light brown hair rested comfortably
on her shoulders. Her brown eyes
so inviting. Her smile so
radiant. “I won’t let this
happen. I won’t let you be
forgotten and disrespected like this.”
He hung his head for a moment, trying to hold back the tears he knew were
Though he tried not to go to
that place, his mind couldn't keep from wandering back to that day.
The images were just as vivid as the instant he stepped out of his old
Chevy Silverado 1500. He could once
again hear the gravel shifting under his boots as he had made his way to the
front door. He felt the uneasiness
of that moment again--seeing
Cindy’s candy apple red Ford Tempo in the driveway and knowing something was
wrong. He could see himself once
again turning the knob and cautiously swinging the front door open.
The lump in his throat and the thunderous beating of his heart had made
it impossible for him to call out to her, so he said nothing as he entered. He had smelled it immediately, though
he didn’t know what it was. It
filled his nostrils once again as he remembered, but this time he knew the
stench was of brutal death. He
once again heard the rapping of his leather boots on the tile.
It had cut through the eerie silence as he stepped into the kitchen. He remembered how he had swallowed
hard, then reluctantly looked toward the bedroom.