Stockholm

Chapter 1

Everything is cloaked in darkness as I lay in the quiet except for Lorna's snores. She swears she doesn't but I have ample proof. Too many nights where I stayed like this, swallowed up by black, where even shadows don't exist. It's too easy to let my thoughts loose, to play things out in exact detail, over and over again until it's ingrained so deep in my head there's an everlasting picture.

But as much as I'd like to stay here, like this, I can't.

I slowly lift Lorna's arm, wiggling out from underneath it as the bed creaks in protest and the sheets tangle around my ankles. I've perfected moving quietly through her room of the one bedroom house she rents in town at the outskirts of the business district. I know where the dresser sits, squeezed between the corner of the wall and the door, and the spot that's halfway to it that squeaks like hell when you step on it. I know that there's always a laundry basket full of clean clothes that get folded but never put away that sits on the other side in front of the open bifold doors to her closet. A closet that houses more empty hangers than full ones. I have to have all this memorized because Lorna can't sleep if there's even a dash of light, one tiny speck and she feels it I swear. It drives me crazy, the two of us having spent long hours as I fought to get her to keep a light on, a night light, a curtain open, anything.

Buttoning my dark navy pants, I throw the matching shirt over my shoulder with my undershirt and pocket my phone and wallet off the nightstand. But just as I go to tiptoe my way out, warm fingers curl around my wrist.

"Don't leave Kyle." Lorna murmurs, her almost eradicated southern accent hanging on the edges of her words.

"Go back to sleep." I shush, kissing her temple.

She grumbles something incoherent but I can probably guess. It's becoming a battle between us. She rolls over, tucking the pillow I was using under her head and grows still again.

And I leave, like I do every night I come see her.

My dad's old Chevy sits in her driveway, the gray paint chipping off as rust eats away the wheel wells from winters spent in salt and snow. It needs a new tie rod, brakes and an ac unit but I'm not convinced the damn motor won't give out first.

A turn of the key and the truck sputters to life, I roll the windows down and hop in, my hand slipping under the seat until my fingers brush against the soft leather of my holster, cool metal grazes my skin after. And then I start the 7.2 mile trek home.

Home is just across town, a little neighborhood with houses all from the same era with brick that was repurposed from the nearby cities urban planning back in the 70's. There are mature trees that shade the boxy houses and a road pitted with potholes so large they threaten to swallow the mightiest of vehicles.

The truck groans as it bumps down the road, past all the sleeping neighbors and as I pull into the crumbling driveway and kill the engine it sighs with relief. In the shadows of the streetlights, I take note of the grass that needs to be mowed, the gardens overtaken by weeds that I'll cut down with the weed whip, and the sidewalk that gets more and more covered by grass every year. I can remember a time, when I was really young, our yard was pristine. My dad spent countless hours edging the sidewalk and resurfacing the driveway so it'd stay black as night even as the sun beat down on it summer after summer. Or how my mother would spend her weekend mornings sitting in the grass, pulling weeds from between the petunias and hydrangeas while she drank iced tea.

I grab my gun from under the seat, hit the lock button as I close the door and head for the house. My boots slosh around on my feet, still untied from when I slipped them on at Lorna's causing the heels to scrap across the pavement. By the time I reach the side door, I'm no longer alone, a stray orange cat with no ears I call Bud sitting in the light purring so loud it drowns out the crickets.

"Hey Bud." I greet him. He says a silent meow, curling around my ankles as I unlock the door.

As soon as the door cracks an inch he's through. Trotting to the kitchen no doubt where he'll hop on the counter and wait for me to peel back the lid of some horrible smelling tuna cat food for him. Once he's had his fill he'll perch himself on the back of the couch where he'll stay until I wake up a few hours later. He'll follow me around, silently meowing to anything I might say to him as I get ready for work before he's out the door and gone for the day doing god only knows what.

I guess he's not a stray anymore.

Slipping my feet from my boots, I hang my keys up and leave my gun on the counter underneath the key rack. Bud's right where I thought he'd be, purring like mad.

"One sec." I mumble, the tv tossing shadows through the house.

It's the same every night. It has been for years. All the memories that exist that don't look like this are old and faded, worn so much sometimes I'm convinced I made them up. I run my hand along Bud's back as he digs into his fresh can of food and go to the living room to clean. The smell I've grown accustomed to. I guess the whole situation I've grown accustomed to but somewhere in that mess is my loving mother. The one who preened her flowers and cooked my favorite meals, kissed my boo boos and laughed at all my dad's lame jokes. I haven't seen her in years, rather a fraction of the women she was but I love her still all the same. And I'm all she's got.

"Hey mom." I brush my hand along her forehead, forcing the can of liquor from her clutch. "Let's get you to bed."

"Cam..." she mumbles, dark bloodshot eyes fluttering open. "What time is it?"

"It's Kyle mom." I tell her like I do every night she mistakes me for my dad. "It's late, let's go to bed."

She's frail, her body trying to survive on booze and not much else. I scoop her into my arms, her head curling into my chest where she huffs out stale breath. My mother once was beautiful. With soft hair that sparkled like gold in the sunlight and warm eyes. She was always dressed, shoulders square as she stood beside my father in his police uniform, oozing pride.

What would he think of her now? Though if he was still here, she never would have gotten this bad.

My parents room is just a few paces away and as I cross the living room toward it Bud appears, making his way to his designated spot. The bed is still pulled down from whenever my mom stumbled out of it earlier today. An empty bottle of liquor tipped over on its side. I lay her down gently, noticing then the clothes she has on are stained down the front. Reaching for a clean shirt, she protests while I fight the dirty one off over her head and replace it with a clean one. Her words all slurred and indecipherable.

"Almost done." I murmur gently, tugging the back of it down as she rests limply against me.

"I missed you today Cam." she whispers.

I let my eyes close, wishing I could ease her heartbreak, wishing I could bring back dad, that I could fix the past. But it's not that easy. It's not that simple. Dad would have fixed it if he could have. If he would have had more time.

So instead I cradle her head as I lay her down into her bed and say "I missed you too Myra."

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So, feel free to also tell me what you think. I've been socially deprived not posting stories. Don't hold back.