Page 105 of Dirty Game

Maybe it’s the blackout shades, or maybe it’s just all the memories stacked like tombstones.

The room is a perfect replica of a kid’s bedroom, only nobody’s ever slept in the bed.

It’s all curated—handmade.

There’s a wooden bed shaped like a race car, superhero sheets tucked perfectly.

The walls are painted with planets and stars, a whole solar system orbiting a cartoon sun.

Shelves hold unopened boxes, each one labeled with a date and an age:

FIRST CHRISTMAS. FIRST BIRTHDAY. SECOND BIRTHDAY.

They go up to four.

The closet’s full of clothes in every size, tags still on.

Shoes never worn, all lined up by color and function—rain boots, sneakers, dress shoes. There’s a tricycle in the corner, shiny and new.

I stand in the middle of it, breathing in the smell of fresh paint and plastic. It’s a tomb.

My legs take me to the bed and sit on the edge, hands in my lap.

For a second, I picture a kid running in here, tearing the wrappers off a present, giggling like he doesn’t know the world wants to kill him.

It hits me like a baseball bat to the head.

I grab the nearest box and hurl it at the wall.

It explodes—Lego sets and Hot Wheels fly everywhere.

I grab another, then another, until the floor is a minefield of shattered dreams and choking hazards.

I rip the sheets off the bed and toss them out the window. I tear the comforter down the middle.

I smash the lamp, then the closet door. The sound is the only thing I can hear.

I don’t stop until everything’s ruined.

When there’s nothing left to break, I collapse on the floor, knees up, forehead resting on my fists.

My hands leave bloody prints on the white rug.

I don’t cry. I never do, but my body shakes like I’m going to.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but eventually I hear the soft pad of feet behind me.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just stands there, staring at the wreckage, taking it all in.

Then she kneels next to me, slow so I can’t mistake her for a threat.

She picks up one of the broken toys, turns it over in her hands. “You planned for him,” she says. “All this time.”

I keep my head down.

“Five years,” she says, so soft it could almost be a prayer. “Every birthday. Every Christmas. You bought him gifts. Clothes. Everything.”

I nod, just once.