“You should be here,” I whispered to the empty room. “You should be here, not under the dirt six feet below.”
The thought made me sick.
I pressed my bloody hand against the sink and turned the faucet. Water cascaded down, rinsing the crimson away. But no matter how much I scrubbed, the guilt remained. The memory remained.
The house was too empty. Too lifeless.
I glanced toward the corner cabinet, the first aid kit sitting there. She had bought it. Years ago, when she used to scold me for being reckless in fights.
Her voice echoed in my mind. “David, you’ll be the death of me one day. Can’t you be more careful?”
I let out a laugh—broken, choked. My tears fell faster. “You’d probably be scolding me wherever you are now.”
I could almost see her small, scrunched-up face, puffed like a b
