The Extinguisher
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I always remembered the smell of the roses. It stuck with me despite all the hardships and troubles. Despite all the crap and filth, those roses remained.
As we sit here, knifes to our throats, all I can think of is how much they cost. It's ridiculous, I know, but that's the only thing in my head. I remember you getting so angry at me for it. But it was worth it, for you.
It's all I have left these days. If I live through this or die, that's all I'll ever have. And yet, I can't even remember the important things. It's just the details. I could pick out every single think you've worn on every date we've ever had, but I couldn't even tell you your mother's name. It's messed up, isn't it.
These days are a blur. Ever since it happened. I can't tell you anything that happened after it. Maybe it's some kind of protection. My brain going crazy to keep me say. What's that called? Post-traumatic stress disorder? Something like that.
But those roses. The smell. It's always so clear. I can feel them in front of me always, being held by awkward teenage hands. That was such a long time ago. But the memories still stay.
It's been too long. I don't see you anymore. I get through the days, but it's not enough sometimes. At least I have my memories.
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