tainted ink

t w o

"Crying is cleansing. There's a reason for tears, happiness or sadness." -Dionne Warwick

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l e i g h t o n

He pats his little brother's head and stomps up the steps, his sneakers thumping against the wood.

Flopping up onto the bed and staring at the ceiling; at the endless amount of tacked up sports posters that have accumulated over the years. His eyes wander to the trophies on his desk, then to the twinkling medals coated in gold. Leighton's chest tightens and his eyes begin to sting.

Memories of his grandfather flood his mind. Shooting hoops with him outside, watching games on TV and screaming at the television screen, his endless support and advice, going to every sporting event there was. Life takes things from you, as he knows well, but why this? Why the thing that meant near everything to him?

A shriek escapes his lips as he rolls onto his feet and tears paper after paper from his ceiling, some of the paint peeling off with it. With fists clenched tight, he shreds the posters to flakes of thick, colorful paper and chucks them into the air at random. They float and drift down like a rainbow of snowflakes in a snowstorm.

He throws himself from the bed and his socked feet thump against the hardwood violently. Tears seep from his eyes as he wrenches the trophies from their shelves over his desk one after the other, his hands shaking like human earthquakes.

He slams them to the floor, beheading the golden men, but that isn't enough. Pulling his shoes back on, he stomps fiercely on his childhood memories like they're death himself. Tears pool under his eyes and stain his shirt, his eyes wild and his skin blotchy and red. His body is shaking wildly and his dark brown hair is a birds nest whipped around his head.

His breaths are ragged heaves of air and his hands are quivering at his sides.

The thump of footsteps storming up the old, rickety steps echoes into his ears and rattles his head.

His mother's slim figure appears in the doorway, her eyes wild and her hair blow every which way, peering at him as if he is not her own.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Her voice isn't angry, as he thought it would be, but terrified.

He opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. Forcing his tongue to move, Leighton finally manages to form words.

"I-I-was just... um..."

His mother rushes to his side and pulls him into her arms. Tight around him, he feels comfortingly safe and a wave of calm washes over his tense body.

"I miss him too," is all she says.

q u i n n

She never understood why people love memories. She despises them with a burning flame in her heart. They aren't sweet, happy, heart-lifting. None of that sentimental shit. They're just excruciating reminders of the past, making your heart yearn to have those precious memories back. To relive the perfect day. To have that happy moment in your short excuse for a life back.

But she knows she can never have those days back. They will never take a complete family photo again, play a boardgame as a whole, a holiday without a gap torn in the joy. The thought tears at her heart with the sharp blade of death and reality, a blade Quinn is oh-so-familiar with.

With a light sigh, she tugs her clothes on and trudges down the steps, the smell of eggs wafting through the rooms of the little and old house.

She finds her delicious breakfast atop the countertop and takes a few nibbles before slipping the rest into the trash bin. A pang of regret claws at her heart but she pushes it away, heading out the door.