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Sally started to grow fond of his new home. Over the past few weeks, his friends had brought him a great sense of joy and comfort, something he hadn't felt since his mother's death. Her death was years ago, Sal was only three when it happened, but it still haunted him.
He squeezed his eyes shut as thoughts of her flooded his mind. He missed her so much. It felt like every day, he missed her more. There's so much he wished she could see, so much he wished he could tell her. He wished she could meet his friends, she would really like them.
"I'm heading out," Sally's thoughts were interrupted by his father's voice. "I'm stopping at the store after work, so I'll be a little late. Let me know if there's anything special you want."
"Okay, I will." Sal replied, looking across the room at his father, who swiftly tied his tie. Henry had worked in the same field for over 15 years, starting shortly after Sally was born. Henry was a salesman, but one of the best around. Back in New Jersey, Henry was the top salesman in the county. Like selling, Henry was also good at hiding his secrets. His alcohol abuse tore what was left of his family apart.
As a young child, Sal learned quickly that his father had a problem. It started with the late nights, the frequent sobs the erupted from the room across the hall, then went on to the broken bottles on the floor, the crumpled cans in the corner. Sal feared that it would go to far and he would have to witness, yet another, parent be buried.
Since moving, Henry's drinking dwindled, but not completely. On Friday nights it worsened. Back to the sobs and the yelling, causing Sally to stay with his friends on most occasions, other nights he spent trying to calm his father down, which sometimes didn't work out.
"Love you, bud." Henry said, giving his son a weak smile before shuffling to the living room. Sal stared at his own feet, wondering how different things would be if the accident never happened. He would be happy, oh how he just wanted to be happy.
Once he heard the door shut, he stood up and walked over to his dresser. On top was his prosthetic, a constant reminder of what was and what resulted from that accident. Next to it sat his Gear Boy, something he had forgotten about for so long, until finding it recently in a box he has yet to unpack.
Earlier that week, while doing his laundry, Sal found a game cartridge that fit with his Gear Boy. When he picked it up, he was puzzled. There was no title on the game, as if the front sticker had been ripped off. At the time, he had just stuck it in his pocket until he had returned home.
Sally had yet to find out what was on the game cartridge. He picked up the Gear Boy, flipping it over to reveal the back, his name scratched in with an old pocket knife. He removed the current game and inserted the new one. He was thinking it was a virus someone imbedded into a game, but he still took his chances - he really didn't use the game anymore anyway.
