The Things I Couldn't Say #wattys2016

Part V

As a child, Friday nights were always my favorite. Mom and I would cuddle on the couch with big, buttery bowls of popcorn between us. We watched Dallas, followed by Falcon Crest. Lately, I'd been curling up on the chair instead. Couldn't risk her smelling the cigarette smoke that may be lingering on my clothes.

There was a knock at the door and I jumped off the chair to answer it. "I'll get it."

Christine only left a minute ago, she must have forgotten something. She usually just walked in. We'd hung out almost every day since my family moved onto the street last year. She was almost two years older and I felt pretty cool hanging out with someone so much older than me. We didn't go to the same school but would next year when I started high school.

I opened the door and my heart beat quickened, thudding in my ears.

Two solemn looking police officers stood on our front steps. The younger of the two with his head bowed.

Moist heat radiated from my palms, a stark contrast against the cool brass of the door handle as I gripped it for support.

"My name is Officer Collins. Does David Holloway live here?"

Maybe if I closed the door and opened it again Christine would be there, whispering that she forgot her cigarettes under the back deck.

"Yes, I'll get him." I closed the door.

I walked to the top of the basement stairs, opened the door and found my voice. "Pops. There's someone here for you."

My legs were rubbery as I walked back to the living room. I had that far away feeling I got whenever I was afraid. I threw myself onto the couch beside her.

"Who's here, honey?" Mom asked.

"The police."

For a split second she was frozen, then she tossed her bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and half of it spilled out onto the table and floor. "What? Oh my God." She rushed to the front door just as Pops got to the top of the stairs.

I followed them both. Whatever was on the other side of the door couldn't be worse than sitting there alone.

Pops opened the door, apologized for my rudeness and invited the officers inside.

"Are you David Holloway?" the older officer asked.

"Yep."

"Do you have a son named Bradley Holloway?"

"Yep."

Pops was acting strange, like when we crossed the border for family vacations and he had to talk to the people at the customs booth. Mom said he did that when he was out of his comfort zone.

The older officer's face was expressionless. "I'm sorry to inform you that your son was found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound at 6:34pm."

I couldn't breathe. My clothes were too tight and my throat too dry. Mom asked questions while choking on tears. The younger officer turned his hat in his hand. He looked sad. I'm sure he felt bad coming here and ruining our lives.

Pops didn't move. "Oh. Well, thanks for letting us know."

Someone asked what self-inflicted meant.

Mom turned towards me and said we'll talk about it later.

It must have been me who asked.

As I ran up the stairs I heard the officers ask if I'd be alright. I closed my bedroom door but it offered no protection against what I'd just been told. My stomach churned. I needed to go to the bathroom but I was frozen. My heart was pounding. Couldn't think properly. Everything seemed too slow and far away. My mouth filled with spit. I was going to be sick.