Snow covered mountains reached to the pure blue sky above them, reflecting in the mirror lake below. There weren’t any clouds in the sky. In the bottom right corner I saw a family of five sitting posing for a picture: Me and my four children: Max, Alexandra, Sophie, and Geoff. I was hoping to see my wife there and then I remembered. Two years before she had passed away from cancer at thirty eight: we had been the same age. I never remarried and it took me years to get over. Max, thirteen years old, had suggested we go on a vacation so I could take my mind off things. We all took a trip to Idaho to see the mountains and go hiking. We camped as we went: nothing had been planned ahead. We were completely free of time constraints. I had a month off of work as a restaurant manager. It was a wonderful three weeks with my children. I dreaded going home to the house that my wife and I had started our lives together. That was one of the hardest times in my life. I had not exposed myself to these deep thoughts of my wife for years and I began to cry out openly. I turned the page.
Banners of gold and blue filled a damp garage. Those awful colours were everywhere: the walls, tables, flowers, plates, and even the food were the monstrous colors. Then I remembered. Sophie dressed in a beautiful white summer dress ran around hugging friends and family. Her hair, curled especially for the occasion bounced as she skipped from one person to another. Geoff was not around, having fought with us, well me, the night before. My smile faded into sadness. The previous night I had caught Geoff in his room passed out. Alcohol and drugs were spread out on the floor next to his body. He was in a sad position, body crammed between his bed and the wall from gravity pulling on the small weight of his body. I remembered yelling at him, telling him how disappointed I was. I had said such terrible things: I hated him, I didn’t want him to become like my father: an abusive drunk. He swore at me and threatened to hurt me (I knew he would never dare to hurt his sister). He ran, breaking the door in his wake. I clenched my jaw and began to turn the page. The assistant reached out and told me to continue on the page (I forgot I wasn’t alone). I returned my shaking hand to my lap, puzzled: why did I need to stay on this page? What did I need to learn? I had been fifty years old, I thought I had handled the situation appropriately. I continued looking at the page and saw, deep in the corner, a small image. My nose almost touching the tender pages, I could scarcely make out the faint shape in the distance. There he was, dressed in black, keeping to the shadows: Geoff. He had returned! He had loved his sister so. I looked up as the assistant grunted, holding another large leather book, similar to the one in my hands. He placed the open book on top of my book and motioned for me to look. The picture was confusing, very fuzzy. I saw the same scene in my book, though it was in a different perspective: Geoff's. The book seemed to bring about a depressed feeling. I watched as the scene unfolded. I noticed a stream of words running across the bottom, like a news reel: his thoughts. If only he understood my pain. I don’t do this on purpose. I feel so lost and alone. ...maybe if I end it I will be happier, though I doubt he would feel better. ...Please don’t bring mom into it. I feel bad enough as it is. I love you, I really do. I’m lost and I need help. I’m sorry you had to find me this way. That wasn’t exactly the plan. I am under a lot of stress. Your support would be nice, not this rage of anger. You are beginning to remind me of the stories of grandpa. My heart sank into my stomach. It felt like I had been shot in the chest. I could not believe how unhelpful I had been. I loved him so much and I made him feel like nothing, the exact opposite of what he was. I looked up at the assistant who gently closed the book and toddled off. With a guilty heart, I turned the page.
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