Memories (Chapter One)

O N E

If only.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Miles."

I nodded at the group of black suited men in front of me. "Thank you for coming." I tried to smile, but my muscles didn't so as much as contract or relax at my wish. I hope my voice sounded fine to others; it was much, much older and broken to me. The fact that I couldn't control myself surprised me.

But nothing could beat the surprise I received from your abrupt death.

I looked up at the picture of a woman in her fifties hanging on the wall. It was grey and lifeless but the bright flowers placed around the frames were contrasting it.

It was your most recent picture but you weren't smiling.

Colourless it was, but colourful to me. Your grey with white strands of hair tied in a bun, blank steel-blue eyes that were always staring far away and the wrinkles that only increased every day. I could recall all these details as though you were standing right in front of my eyes for me to notice them.

But your smiles, gentle eyes or long blonde hair from ages ago. Those I couldn't remember.

Tragedy.

It was truly a tragedy whenever I remembered what they told me.

I took a few steps closer, my gaze glued to your picture.

It seemed like you left the iron unattended and a fire started. There was nobody at home because our children were out for a short while and as usual, I was working. You were trapped in the room as the fire started licking the space clean.

They had found you after the fire was put out. You were lying right in front of the door, hands slightly outstretched towards the door knob leading to safety. When I rushed home, the police and firefighters were already done with putting out the fire and moving your body out of the room. The fire didn't spread out of the room, so the entire house was fine.

They took pictures of the room. You were so close. It was just a step away. But you couldn't open it. You didn't know how to. You were trapped inside.

All because you had dementia.

You wouldn't have had to die.

I shut my eyes for a short while, trying to get the image of you waiting for your death out of my mind. My heart squeezed itself so tightly I thought I would suffocate when I thought of that. I was guilty. I felt remorse. But was I sad?

Even though you died, I couldn't cry.

I wondered why.

Because I've already forgotten about you. A voice inside me rang.

When I reopened my eyes, I met yours. Even in the picture, they looked the same. Faded, distant and hollow. And they would never look at me again.

My lips parted, and I felt like asking you a question. One last question. But soundlessly, I closed them when I realized that you would never be able to answer me again.

Maybe one day when I see you again, in heaven or hell, I'll ask.

Would you answer? Maybe not.

I turned and walked away from you, just like how I did four years ago.

Was I a good husband? Maybe I used to be. Or I never was one.

But regardless of the answer, it was too late now.