You want to believe, you want to believe so bad, but you can’t because it hurts and it hurts so fucking much, but as you look at the face of your son — your son! — you believe in him with the same soft ferocity which you once believed in God and you rip open his shirt to check the bullet wounds that entered his heart and there they are, there they are small and seemingly harmless, but you know better because these two tiny holes were what tore him away from you and left you a shell of a person; your organs are working but you’re not, you’re hurt but not hurt, here but not here, but all the same you look at your son with love like nothing else, he looks like a fucking angel, his hair is practically glowing, his face set in soft tenderness, and he’s so real and there and alive, but then you blink and he’s gone and you start to weep because you know he’s nothing but an illusion, a hallucination brought on by a broken mind and a broken heart, and the slowly healing wound in your heart rips open again and fills with fresh grief.
What do you call a parent who’s lost her child?
YOU ARE READING
Suicide Lane Cafe
Short StoryA collection of short stories, drabbles, and bizarre things.
