The smell from within the house was truly horrible. John shied away at first, but he knew there was no turning back. Somehow, he would have to face it. The fire, the remains, all the loss that was hiding in his parents' house.
He kicked open the door, holding his breath, although there wasn't much point. He'd have to breathe eventually.
Or not, he reminded himself. But no, he should keep that sort of thought away. As far away as possible if he wanted to get anything done.
The first thing he saw was his mother's framed photo of him as a school boy and it broke his heart.
He was taken back to that day, the smile in her eyes, which made him forget that he really didn't want to actually go to school.
She'd been so proud of her son for having his picture taken - such a dashing young man - that he'd forgotten about Billy Richards pushing his books to the floor or about the horrible afternoon he'd pushed his face to the toilet seat.
No. That was beyond him now.
Grown-up John walked through his parents' home, seeing bits and pieces of his childhood, smelling the ash.
And he found tears going down his face. How would he tell her what had happened? The police had called him late last night, telling him there'd been an accident at his parents' home. A bum had fallen asleep on the doormat, huddling for warmth.
A lit cigarette.
The fire had spread incredibly fast and there was nothing no one could do. John wondered, absent minded, if the smell was from the bum.
How long does your smell wonder the world once you're gone?
How long would the homeless man's smell linger around his parents' home? But after all, who cared?
Who gives a shit - the house is empty. It's been empty for seven months, ever since his dad's funeral. And he had to accept that. He had to accept that his mother was probably never coming out of that home.
Not now that her house was gone. Or near enough. She had nothing to come back to, so she'd probably stay there, with the old people and the smell of death forever.
He realized the tears he was weeping were not so much for the house itself, but for his father. He hadn't allowed himself to cry when the old man had gone. He had to be strong for her, he had to be the pillar, a shoulder to cry on, just as she'd been his pillar all those years ago. Against the bullies and all the misery. He had to be a strong man.
Standing in the ruins of his parents' house, John realized how much he needed his mother.
He was trying to be a strong man, but he was crumbling.
