Disclaimer: Not mine. Although some characters I do claim, as they are mine.
A/N: Some explanation for those of you who might not have read my other fic Collide. In Collide, I had part of Munch's history being that he served in Vietnam. He had been drafted at 18 or 19 before going to college. Later, I found out that Munch, when he filled out his draft card, filed himself as a concientious objector, therefore avoiding being drafted, in a way. So, basically, this isn't canon. Just sort of a warning.
He threw up the door and listened to the muffled bang as it hit the floor. Climbing up the last of the ladder rungs, he hoisted himself up to sit on the dusty attic floor. Geting up here sure is a hell of a lot more difficult than it used to be, he thought. Looking around, he spotted the single bare bulb hanging from the low ceiling. Standing up, he was careful not to bump his head as he pulled the chain. Unshaded light flooded the attic, showing more spider webs than he cared to count, and a few spiders which did an eight leg scurry into the nearest shadows. Boxes piled on top of each other, covered with dust made up a large percentage of the items surrounding him. There were a few other things. Toys his mother had never gotten rid of. Old, mostly broken furniture that had found a new home in the dark and dust. An old record player he hadn't seen since... well, in a long time.
Sighing, he realized that his task was larger than he had first thought. Moving a couple lighter boxes, he found an old milk crate filled with old newspapers. He dumped those out as neatly as he could and turned the crate upside down, sitting on its bottom. Now, to sort through as many boxes as I can before dying of dust inhalation, he thought with a wry smile. His mother really was a pack rat.
An hour later, he had gone through two boxes, mostly filled with old books that were falling apart. Still, he found his job strangely captivating. He was sifting through his childhood, and the lives of his parents. Their memories, some he shared, but most that he didn't. Children rarely know what their parents are truly like, what they were like before they met, how they met, why they fell in love. They only know the basics, like the jobs their parents hold, what they're like when they're angry, happy, sad. Everything else is a mystery covered with the cloth of the past.
Shaking his head and glancing at his watch, he pulled another box towards him. This one, strangely enough, was marked. All the other boxes were anonymous entities, their contents unknown until someone opened them up. This one, however, had the word 'letters' scrawled across it. He recognized the scrawl as his own, somewhat untidy handwriting. Lifting the flaps, he was met with neatly stacked piles of folded papers, some in envelopes, others bare. He knew what these were. He had written more than half of them. This was his past now. This was the end of his childhood, the jungle of transition into adulthood that he had fought through. Lifting the first one from the pile, he noted the date, the worn paper, the water stains that had made the ink run a bit.
Tear stains.