In my mind, I always return to that mountain.
The memories are surprisingly fuzzy. I suppose, after all these years, I've blocked it out.
I remember laughter, and swearing, and hugs and friends.
I remember the rusty ski lift, and the feeling of the snow when it seeped through my boots and made my toes numb. I remember the gnarled trees whistling and creaking in a never-ending wind storm.
I remember the musty scent of the old cabins, pine and dust and smoke. I remember the rusted generator that always gurgled and the fireplaces lined with soot and ash.
I remember smiling, a long time ago.
I remember him.
I promised I'd never forget.
His screams still ring in my ears sometimes, echoing over and over until I myself am mad.
I suppose I miss him.
Were we friends? I guess I don't know. He always hugged me, and he wasn't a hugger. He would hold my hand when I would let him, and playfully ruffle my hair and punch my arm.
He kissed me once.
I remember the scent of smoke, and the half rotting corpses of long lost humanity. I hear my heartbeat in my ear, and feel their breath on my cheek.
I remember the fire, burning against the sunrise.
I thought it was beautiful.
I also thought it was hell.
They never found him, after the incident.
The officials declared him dead, and that was that.
Rumors circled for months about the lost Washington boy. I would only turn my music up louder to drown it out. But I would catch snippets.
"... depressed early..."
"...poor child!"
"...absolutely batshit insane, I tell you!"
"...murderer"
"Suicide, eh?"
I bit my tongue and clenched my fists and remembered his smile.
The medical records were a mess. I had crunched them into balls and beat my pillow in anger because *he never told me*
"Anything, Josh"
I promised him once.
I guess he forgot.
If I had known, would he still be alive? Would he be lying next to me, still smiling like he used to?
Would he have forgiven himself?
If, would, if.
Useless words.
I remembered when we first met. I was younger, and still had my hair in pigtails and patches on my knees.
Was that when I fell in love with him?
I remember he took me to dances, to parties, to bars.
Friend, he would say, and my heart would hurt until he smiled.
Was it then?
The night they were buried, we stayed. He sat in the corner and picked at his hands until they bled.
I remember he cried. I'd never seen him cry before.
So I held him, and I promised it would be okay. That he would be okay. He believed me. I believed me.
He kissed me.
Was that when?
Sometimes I wonder which of us actually died at that cabin.
I wonder what he'd think of my now. Me, with my PHD and a long sleeved blazer to hide my scars.
Did he have scars? I can't remember.
Maybe I just don't want to.
"Solberg, Samantha?"
"Tell me, what do you recall most about that night?"
"The fire"
It rolls off my tongue. She writes it down and believes it. A fire. Only a fire.
But in my mind, I always return to that mountain.
Before the fire, and before the snow was stained with blood.