The memories of childhood and family are infinite. Loving. Painful


3. Pains

Now he looks at the broken shell of a car, metal twisted and broken and crushed. The entire left side bent in on itself in a vague attempt to hide, a feeble thought of protection for the occupants. If She took the battering they wouldn’t have to. He remembers the lorry, the impact. Dizzying lights, whirring colours. The burn of oil in the back of his throat, the blood. He remembers the rush, the screaming whine of sirens.  The sudden end to a life long journey. Waking up disoriented, everything too white, too bright, too painful. The stricken face of the nurse. Her words white noise within numb ears. Panic. His brother? He remembers the hospital room, his brother spread thin on white sheets. Then his breath. Steady. Struggling. Fading. The mantra in his head now his Dad was gone, Look after your brother, look after your brother. His breath leaving. The nurses rushing him out.

Everything is clear and bright and painful as he looks at Her. His car. Her own person. He picks up a mallet at his feet and smashes the windows, the rest of the metal. Apologies flying off of his lips. He had to do this. He had to do this. Brings the flat head down again and again. His head and chest ache, his ears buzz. He’s overwhelmed, everything is reeling and impossible. But it is terrifyingly possible. It’s happening. He destroys the last memory of childhood and doesn’t look back.

He vows that, as an adult, things will go better, the rush of freedom, of finality and infinity will be reached. Eventually. 

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