I travel through the empty house. So loud with its deafening silence.
The smell of peppermint attacks me in wafts. Almost medicinal in its sweet saccharine. Your smell. My childhood.
But medicine couldn't save you then.
My eyes gaze over the old worn armchair, that sits in the corner of the room,
the seat left with an permanent imprint.
Another reminder that you're gone.
Tears threaten to spill, pricking at my eyes with the force of a thousand jets.
I hold them in.
I left the room that day. The hospital room with bright flashing lights.
With the smell of sterility. With the bright yellow wallpaper. Meant for brightening my mood.
'There's no hope', they said.
I couldn't say it.
That one word. You wanted to hear it.
One word. All it would have taken.
But I left.
Because it teared my heart apart.
Still does to this day.