silence
Silence is a great healer. At least, that's what they told me after the accident. I haven't spoken since, not even to the mirror. My most vivid memories ensure that, plaguing me as nightmares -- those devilishly malformed ruminations of the subconscious -- each and every night. And when I don't spend the evening entombed in a twisted pit of groaning metal, splintering plastic, and hellish heat, I invite into my cell memories of her. The way her golden hair fell flawlessly, framing her dazzling visage. Her aurally ambrosial laugh. Even the glistening bittersweet of the tears I hated to see, but loved as much as the azure eyes they sprouted from. But most of all I remember the fantastic explosion that rocked the neighborhood as the gas in her house caught fire from my tossed cigarette. I swore I was innocent. But here in my silent, dark room I begin to wonder... and for the first time in four years, I laugh.
