Everything is a memory
Sad memories
Tomorrow, somewhere
I'll be somewhere far away

—Kyoukara Omoide, Aimer

From today, you will only be a memory.

You are a memory encased in a single photograph. It is not even a pretty photograph. It is a photograph of you slumped against the metal wall of the elevator, a dark gray flower blossoming from the single hole in your chest. It is the only photograph I am allowed to keep of you. It reminds me that you are not warmth anymore, not love, not justice, not dreams, not ideals. You are a memory of my short childhood.

And everything else, every memory we have built between us—the heavy books I liked being read to me, the television where we watched the news every evening, the coats and the suits and the scarves that smelled like you, the blankets and pillows and Mother's pictures of when she was still young and alive and the utensils we hardly ever use because you don't really cook and my school things and my medals and trophies and certificates for this competition and that—everything that served to remind me that we have once lived in this house is now sorted neatly into boxes.

I press the button once more on the answering machine and listen to your voice filtering through the speaker—"Miles, what would you like for dinner?"—and look around when the recording ends, noting the gray sky outside the window. Stripped of its curtains, the window had nothing else to block me from the dismal weather. I hope that it is cold enough for snow.

I glance at the reminder that was on the coffee table. Mr. von Karma said that he was going to pick me up at five. I still have thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to remember you. Thirty minutes to forget you.

I remember when I woke up to the face of aunt the morning after that terrible day, asking me that question—"Are you alright?" What can I tell her? It is very unfair. How can I cry when the adult in front of me was already shaking in silent tears? Miles, you're a very mature person, the teacher has told me once, Miles, you're not the sort of person who lets his emotions rule him. Does that mean that aunt isn't being very mature right now? What does being an adult even mean?

Does that mean I need to pretend that you're still here with me?

I'm afraid, because first I killed Mother.

Then I killed you.

BANG.

Evidence is everything in court.

Where is the evidence that in a few minutes you will open that white door and peek inside with that serious look in your face and tell me "it's going to be alright"? The result of my inability to protect you is the fact that now you can only exist in my mind.

There is no one else that can remember you as vividly as I can, as far as this house is concerned.

Tomorrow, I'm leaving you behind in this little house. Tomorrow, I'll be somewhere far away. It is a lonesome thought. Are you somewhere with Mother right now? Are you going to be trapped in this house forever, with my precious childhood?

Irresistibly, I press the buttons on the answering machine again, and again, and again. You speak to me once more, once more, once more, an echo of lost time, lost feelings, lost opportunity.

"Miles, what would you like for dinner? The usual?"

"Miles, I'll be coming home late today. Just reheat the food in the fridge come dinnertime."

"Miles, I have a present for you when I get home. I think you'll really like it."

You were such a terrible, terrible cook, and what wouldn't I give to taste your horribly burnt dinners again? You were such a brilliant, brilliant attorney, and what wouldn't I have given to rewind back to the time when I can still wholeheartedly believe that I can become like you? You were such a good father, and also an irresponsible one, because if you had loved me even once, I shouldn't be here right now, wishing with all my might to see you coming downstairs with your newspapers and coffee and skewed glasses… to tell you, for the first time, for the last time…

"Miles, I heard you aced the flute competition today. Sorry if I didn't make it. It's just a super important trial today. I'm really sorry. I'll make sure to see you play next time. That's a promise."

"I love you too," I whisper, and I swallow because time is running out, and I need to make you hear, make you understand. "I love you too—"

And inside, all the while, I yell, Father, father, why have you forsaken me?

The front door opens and a cane echoes on the floor, and I drop my hand from the phone.

From today, you will only be a memory.

A sad memory.

A beautiful memory.

A bloody memory.

…

…I'd rather you not be just a memory.