It’s been 6 months since I found my wife and daughter murdered: When the beer bottles take up more space on the desk than the keyboard and the mouse, it may be too late to write anything with a clear head. I look at the room around me at it tells its own story. Empty bottles that once contained bourbon or beer are littered across the floor. They rest under and upon a bed of cigarette butts and ash.
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The room hosts an acrid smell of stale cigarette ash that have been soaked in stale beer. Some may find this particular odor offensive, but after six months I don’t even notice unless I leave the house for a few hours.
It’s been six months since the day I came home to find my wife and daughter on the floor of the living room. Their faces were locked in a horrified expression I cannot help but see every time I close my eyes. If I were to take the time to clean the sea of beer bottles and cigarette ash, I would probably find the pool of dried blood left behind when the police took my only two reasons to go on living out of my house in a black bag — as if they were dirty laundry.
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