Oneshots

Locks and Empty Medicine Bottles

“Dad?”

My son's fearful face stares up at me.

“Yes, Jonah?” I pull him into my arms.

“When's Daddy coming back home?” The purity of his question brings a new round of tears to my eyes. How do you explain suicide to a five year old?

“Sweetheart, Daddy's not coming back.”

He snuggles close to me and I bite my lip I don't want to see his heartbroken face. How do you explain suicide to his sixteen year old brother?

How do you explain suicide to a forty five year old who's just lost his husband?

There's a single moment of shock when you can't do anything. You can't breathe; you can't cry, you can't feel. I could see the moment register across Alan's face.

“Alan, Honey, I'm so sorry.” I try to bring him close, but he pulls away. When his faces comes back it's painted in disgust.

“I'm going out,” he finally says. He stands and snags my keys off the hook. I don't stop him.

I just let him go.

Jonah's footsteps creak down the carpeted stairs. I hold my arms out and he snuggles close. I can feel his confusion through the layers of fabric. It's not fair to him.

It's not fair to any of us. I was always so careful. He always came to me. We could have talked about it. About anything.

My sweatshirt muffles Jonah's quiet sobs. I hug him tighter. The clock on the wall reads 11:42. He's going to be exhausted tomorrow.

“Come on Sugar, it's time for bed.” I pick him up and cradle him close. I can remember doing this just a few years before. I remember how well he fit into my grasp. His legs hang over the edge now.

“Dad, can I sleep with you?” The monsters in his mind crack his voice and break down his preschool brain.

“Of course. Did you brush your teeth?” I set him down at the foot of the stairs.

He giggles, such a healthy sound. Why can't Alan be this easy? Being a teenager is hard- I remember, but he's a good kid, got lots of friends and a girlfriend. Decent grades.

“Only like a bazillion hours ago, Dad. Remember?”

I do remember. Holding him down while he struggled against the toothbrush. What a silly kid. Brushing his teeth wasn't my job. It was his job- my husband. He was the parent with the constant supply of bandaids and encouragement when any kid in the neighborhood took a fall. Everyone loved him. I loved him more than life itself.

Jonah's warm beside me, tossing and turning the whole night. I wonder what fear is eating at his imagination. Surely much worse than any horror I'd faced at his age. I place my hand on his back and he stops shaking. He rolls over and pushes up close to me. His hair's long, it's time for a haircut. I need to remember to get it done soon. What about Alan? No, his hair's okay. He'll tell me when.

I can't sleep. Red numbers glow in the darkness. He always hated that clock. He made me keep it on my side.

Alan's home. He slams the door to his room. There's a strum across the strings of his guitar and then a crash and a shattering sound. I stand. Jonah's still asleep. I need it to stay that way.

I open his door. Alan's sitting on the floor, head in his hands. He looks up. Thick black streaks drip down his cheeks. Is he wearing makeup? A faint breeze blows cool air into his room. It ruffles his hair and the loose edges of the pictures on his walls. “Screamo” bands with dark hair and middle fingers raised. His guitar lays broken on the ground.