The paper — the bottle — even the smooth archaic penmanship, all seeming ancient and untampered with. So what were the chances that it would be addressed to someone else with my name?
“Something’s coming Frankie, and I don’t want to be around when it gets here.”
“Don’t you worry, I still know how to paint a happy picture. I’m just saving it for the year when your mother finally forgives me.”
“What did you read?” I asked my brother, needing an excuse to look away.
I am not dead. Can you hear me?
Madness isn’t usually loud like it’s portrayed on the screen. It’s not bright either — no supernova of unfettered emotion or physical deformity to hint at the rot inside.
“Is your daughter…?” Dave began.
I hate how much sense he made at the time. I hate how easily I let it go.
“It’s okay, mom. I know she died.”
“Come on, man. It’s just a game. So what’s the deal?”