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Barb

Years Later

T he ember glows as I inhale the bitter smoke. Flicking the ash into the bowl overfilled with brown filters, the small television plays cold cases in the background.

I crush the cigarette into the mess.

Raising from the metal chair, I open the mini fridge and grab the mickey of whiskey, pouring half a glass.

I move to the dark drawn curtains as I peer out. Being downtown hasn’t brought me any solace, only fuelled the fire within to be nosy.

Herb took the house when he served me divorce papers. He gets to live a new life while I’m stuck in the past.

Apparently, I’m the only parent who cares about our son’s killer. Herb accused me of being obsessed, needing to move on and enjoy life. It’s obvious he never cared for Miles, not the way a mother can.

Dingy walls close around me. My chest tightens and I wish for an escape more than the amber liquid that burns my stomach.

Shuffling back to the table, I light another cigarette. I increase the volume on the television, and a new peppy reporter talks about the case that will never be cold to me.

It radiates through the coils of my mind, and bile rises in my throat. They never caught my boy’s killer. The useless fucks fumbled with the evidence. I’m sure of it.

Out there in the world, a sadistic person walks the same roads I do, breathing the same clear air and enjoying life.

“The Keepsake Killer has turned into a cold case. Law enforcement is saddened to let the public know. After the years have passed, there have been no cases connecting him to anyone. It’s believed he might have died. Coming up, more highlights on the case and other news.”

I turn my phone over in my hand, the cool metal against my skin. I’ve dialed her thousands of times.

Lucy’s number is etched across my frontal lobe, a memory I’ll never let die. She was never enough for him. I’m sure that has something to do with the reason he’s no longer here with me .

She took the only good thing I had, the man I loved the most.

Slipping the phone into my old white purse, my hand grazes against the wallet.

I stomp the burning butt of the cigarette out and pluck out the billfold, rubbing the soft leather along my cheek. Each day it’s the only thing I have to caress me.

I gaze down at the mahogany stain. Anyone could miss it, but a mother’s intuition is always right.

Others may think it is a blemish, but I know it’s my Miles, my only son, the light of my life.

I kiss the freckle. There is no mistaking it.

Mama knows best.