Drip…
His father used to take him sailing. They would take out the skiff and have a picnic out on the shinning water, just him and dad. He remembered those days as being bright, sunny, full of laughter. He hadn't been out on the water since that day, the day that his father left him and his mother.
Drip…
She couldn't handle it. He was young and hurt; he didn't understand what death really meant. He tried to be there for her, be the man of the house, he did try. She barely even looked at him after the funeral. He didn't understand why. Was it his fault somehow? His house was full of strangers now, coming and going at all hours. They yammered to the ceiling, laid out tarot cards, and brought echoing sobs to his mother after they left. He began to hate them, those strangers.
Drip…
When he came home from school that day, he set his books down on the foyer table and called to his mother that he was home. He had gotten high marks in all his courses and wanted to show them to her. Surely she would be proud of him. She would at least look at him, right? He went up the stairs and to her bedroom. He knocked before he entered. The bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn, but he heard a sound coming from her bathroom…
Drip…Drip…
He went to the open door of the bathroom and looked in. He stared in shock. His mother lay in the clawed foot tub, surrounded by red, by blood. The faucet dripped a clean drop of pure water into the overfull bath. The floor was covered with red. The boy saw his mother floating in the water her hair reaching out around her like little snakes. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling, one red slit wrist hanging over the lip of the bath. He counted the slow drips and couldn't stop.
Drip…Drip…Drip…
One, two, three… Chandler forced himself out of his memory and tried not to count the dripping sounds coming from Terry Thrapston's bathroom at they lifted her from the bath. He took his death grip away from the railing as his mobile rang.