I smile. She lets me go and takes my hand.
"Go tell your father," she says. I nod, grabbing the piece of paper.
"Where is he?" I ask.
"Upstairs."
I walk up the steps and into mom and dad's room.
It's deathly silent.
"Dad?" I call into the quiet.
I turn on the light.
YOU ARE READING
clouded
Poetrycigarettes, to the broken soul, are what advil is to an aching head. an escape from all pain. -- best rank: #974 in short story