I know I was at fault. I shouldn’t have left my friends. I should have made sure they were safe. There’s no excuse for being young and dumb and naïve. The memory of what happened to Rose, of losing her friendship, doesn’t seem like punishment enough for what I did. Which is probably why I buried the memory as long as I did.
From where he sits on the sofa, Vivaldi on the portable CD player next to him, he sees everything but can make sense of nothing. His home gleams. Not a spot of dust anywhere. His wife, with nothing else to do but care for him, has become obsessive. Dust she can control. A husband whose mind deteriorates a little more each day is beyond her.