Laughter.
It is everywhere. It's as if the walls are letting laughter seep through like a draft. Every nook, every cranny, every inch of your home is coated in a sweet layer of the joyous noise.
And you absolutely love it.
Her laugh is perfection ringing in your ears, and you never want it to stop. It is the best thing you have ever heard. It's sweet, like the honey from a beehive. It's smooth, just like her skin which you love to touch. And the way her eyes light up in the process, priceless. You especially love it when it turns into a full-bellied laugh. You love the way her face turns red and her honey blonde curls shake along with her entire body. Sometimes, if you try hard enough, you can bring her to tears from laughing.
You love to do that.
But you would love her even if she laughed like an old man who smoked two packs a day.
You'd love her no matter what.
After all, she is your wife; and the mother of your beautiful six year old son.
He looks just like her; blonde curls, hazel eyes, and her adorable smile. He is smart too, just like her. His reading skills are off the charts; his math skills, amazing. You sometimes catch yourself staring at him, in awe and wonder. His is your son. You have a son. With her.
If you died today, you would die a perfectly happy woman.
Your son's laugh could bring you to tears. He is always giggling, no matter the situation. He giggles when he reads, he giggles when you two play baseball, he giggles at everything. But when you can get him to let out a full-blown laugh, it is the best sound in the world. His head tosses back and his eyes roll up. His little arms wrap around his tiny torso as he squeals happily. You wouldn't trade those moments for anything.
You love your little family. You all live at her house, your home. There is a swing set in the backyard with a yellow slide and three red swings. He loves it when you swing with him, but he loves it more when you give him big pushes so he goes up high in the sky. Your wife doesn't like it, but when he screams out "Mommy look!" with pure delight in his eyes; she can't help but smile. And neither can you.
Age has been kind to you both. She still looks like perfection, honey-blonde hair welcoming the gray hairs that come with motherhood. She has gained a few facial wrinkles, but you think they make her even more loveable. You look just as good as you used to, according to your wife. She calls you exquisite, but you call yourself a mom. Your hair has more gray hairs, probably from all the worrying you do. After all, you have an entire family to worry about. You also have more wrinkles, but that comes with the job, and from having your son. But you don't mind them at all if it means you can have your little family.
As long as your family is happy, you're happy.
And they are happy, in fact, they are more than happy. They are ecstatic.
You are all on your way to go see a Red Sox game, you and your son's favorite team. Your wife is coming along to spend time with you both, and to have fun because you have finally gotten her to understand baseball. You have been planning this game for weeks and you are so excited to see your son's face light up at it all. This will be his first time at a game. He is finally the age to appreciate the game and the stadium. He is wearing his very own jersey as are you while your wife wears your old one. She claims it fits better but you know she loves it because it reminds her of you.
So here you are in your car, driving of course, while your wife sits next to you. Your son is in the backseat singing his little head off to the radio, giggling the whole time. You can't help but chuckle; neither can your spouse.
You are at an intersection, waiting for the light to turn green. You decide to sing along with your son. The song is a classic, "Any Way You Want it" by Journey. Your son has your taste in music and you begin to rock out with him. Your wife laughs loudly at your off key voice.
The light turns to green, and you slowly crawl into the intersection, belting out the lyrics. Your son is laughing along with your wife as you sing, and you absolutely love it.
You never see it coming.
The red Ford truck flies through the intersection, running the red light. It comes up fast on the right side. That is the side that has your passenger seat, where your wife, your spouse, the love of your life, is sitting. That is also the same side as your son's booster seat. Your son; your own flesh and blood, your kin, your little ball of joy.
The impact is loud, and scary as Hell. There is a loud crunch, the combining of metal and metal. Your poor little Lexus was being crushed by a large Ford truck.
The rest is just a blur.
You hear your wife scream, and it causes a pain in your chest.
The car is sliding across the street.
Your son lets out a wail. You cringe.
It is raining bits of glass. Every window in the car has been shattered.
Your side of the car is smashed into a telephone pole. It is wrapping around the pole like a Boa Constrictor around its next victim.
You cry out in pain. Your body is being smashed in between a pole and a truck. And it hurts.
Finally, it is all over.
Silence engulfs you. There is no screams of pain, no wails of fear. Just silence.
And that is what scares you most of all.
You are in pain, but that doesn't matter right now. All that matters is your family.
You turn your head to look at her even though the pain is like a fire and it burns badly.
You look at her, and you want to sob.
There is a large chunk of metal deep into her lower right side. It is bleeding quite heavily. You drag your eyes away from the wound and slowly work your way upwards. Shards of glass stick out of her chest like pins in a pincushion, all of them bleeding slightly. There are scratches all over, marring her perfect skin.
Tears begin to leak out of your eyes, even though you will them away. Because what if your son can see you? You have to be strong. For him.
You finally look at her face, the face you would always kiss goodnight, the face that would smile at you, and the face that held her two perfect lips. And it is nothing like you remember it.
She must have hit her head because blood is matting her honey blonde hair. It drips down her temple and down her cheek; like a teardrop. Her face has deep cuts that seep blood. But the worst part has yet to come.
Her eyes are closed. The entire time you are stared at her, she has not moved. Not an inch. You look at her chest and it does not move. And now you know. No breath passes those lovely lips.
Your wife is gone.
Dr. Maura Isles-Rizzoli, Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, is dead.
You want to scream, you really do. All your love for Maura has bubbled to the surface, all your passion, your feelings. They have all come forward and bombarded you with emotion. She will never see her son go into middle school, high school, college. She will never see her grandchildren. You two will never spend your tenth wedding anniversary together, and it is only two months from now.
Something brings you out of your grief. You listen to the quiet for a sound, listening for whatever dragged you away from your thoughts. You hear faint breathing.
It is your son's breathing.
You shift so you can look at him. You want to cry.
He, too, has a large piece of metal protruding his right side, but his is less severe than your wife's. He is covered in glass, most of it stuck in his skin, causing him to bleed. But you see why he is gasping, and it causes you to painfully gasp.
His neck is bleeding heavily. A shard of glass sliced his carotid artery, and he is struggling to breathe. His eyelids are fluttering as he gasps and whimpers in pain.
You are trying to get to him but being pinned by the telephone pole. It is no use, you are stuck.
And now you must watch your six-year-old son die a painful death.
What did you do to deserve this?
His eyes slowly open and you both make eye contact. He begins to cry and so do you.
You can tell by the amount of blood that he doesn't have much longer. Maybe a minute left in his short life.
You struggle to whisper "I love you" but by the time you get it out, he is taking his last breath. His small chest rises and falls for the last time.
You son, Michael Benjamin Isles-Rizzoli, has passed away.
And all you could do was watch.
You finally find the strength to pull your gaze way from his body and onto your own.
You're bloody, just like the rest of your family. Your left arm and leg are wedged painfully in between metal and the pole. If you survive this you will probably have to have at least one of the two limbs amputated. And you will most likely survive this, as far as you can tell.
But you do not want to.
You want to die. So badly.
You want to be with your family. You want to be able to kiss your wife, hold her, to cuddle with her on the couch. You want to be able to hold your son, play baseball with him, read him a bedtime story or have him read one to you. You want your life back. You want your family back.
You have made up your mind, and your plan is grim.
You look around and with your free hand you sift through the glass on the floor of your totaled Lexus. You finally find a piece big enough and you pick it up. You place the reasonably sized piece of glass up to your neck, where you know there is a major artery. Thanks to Maura.
You take a final glance at your dead wife, and you smile. You slowly whisper "Soon baby" and blow her a weak kiss. You look back at your son's body and say "Wait for me buddy". You turn around and focus on the task at hand.
You have to do it soon because you can her faint sirens growing louder. You take the piece of glass and press it to your neck, all your thoughts on your family and how you are soon to be reunited. You let the glass slide and you let it slice through your artery.
And now you are dying. You can already feel yourself growing weaker. You smile as you hear the sirens grow louder. You smile because you have replaced them with the sound of laughter. But not just any laughter, their laughter; your wife's and your son's.
And that is that last thing you here as you slip away, welcoming your family with open arms.