A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. My voice came out quiet:
"The sight of you makes me sick."
"You said you wanted to make it up to me, Mason? Then drop dead. That would make me happy."
The color drained further from his already pale face. He forced a thin smile.
I watched him with no expression, no feeling at all.
"This is my home."
One sentence. It said everything that needed saying.
The living room sank into a strange, heavy silence.
Mason was the one who broke it. His voice was low and hoarse:
"Take care of yourself. If you need anything, call me."
"My number. It hasn't changed."
With that, he left.
I stared at the closed door, then collapsed into the chair as if every last bit of strength had drained out of me.
My mother died in my third year behind bars.
I never got to see her one last time before she passed.
But I still remembered the last thing she ever said to me.
She said, "Look ahead. Keep moving forward."
Look ahead. Keep moving forward. Easy words to say. Impossible to live by.
Late summer. Leaves fell from the trees in heavy handfuls, surrendering to the ground.
The me from seven years ago would never have imagined I'd end up sweeping those leaves off the streets.