he’d failed her spectacularly and would shoulder that particular guilt the rest of his life.
He didn’t say goodbye to Amy like he normally would; he went down the back stairs where he wouldn’t pass anyone and have to speak to them. He wasn’t in the mood for polite conversation. He needed to stop off at the supermarket and buy a bunch of white roses to put in the bathroom where he’d found her. As well as a large bottle of whisky. He’d sit on the bathroom floor and toast his dead wife, because what else could he do for her now? He’d failed her in life and was still failing her in death. A decent husband would have known what date it was and taken a nice bunch of flowers up to the cemetery to lay on her grave.
All thoughts of the Potter family were pushed from his mind as he began to wallow in the self-hatred he thought he deserved.
When he parked the car outside the house they’d shared, he realised he’d rather not go in there. He should have packed everything up and put it into storage after it happened. Moved to a smaller place; a flat like Morgan’s would be more than sufficient for him and a lot cheaper than the mortgage on this monstrosity full of memories he’d rather forget.
Throwing his coat into the hall closet, he kicked his shoes in there too. He went into the messy kitchen with a couple of days’ worth of pots stacked by the sink. He was a terrible housekeeper and always had been. Tidiness was not one of his traits; he didn’t see the point when there was only him.
Taking the same small, square glass from the back of the cupboard that Cindy had left on the side of the sink that night, he grabbed the bottle of whisky and the flowers. The whole house was cloaked in a heavy feeling of sadness, or was it just him: did houses have feelings? He thought that they probably did. How could they not soak up the atmosphere of the people who resided within them?
Loosening his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt, he trudged up the steps. He often wondered if he would get to the bathroom and see it all play out again. What would he do differently if he had the chance to save her? Going into the bedroom, he unzipped his trousers and let them fall to the floor. Stepping out of them, he continued to the bathroom in his shirt, socks and boxers.
The door was closed; he always kept it closed. Pushing it open, he expected to see her there, her voluptuous, naked lifeless body in the bath. Pressing the light switch, he didn’t open his eyes until the room flooded with bright light. The breath he’d been holding released when he saw it was empty, messy and no ghost of his dead wife waiting for him. He placed the flowers on the side of the bath, then sat on the floor. His back pressing against the wooden panel they’d chosen together in B&Q one rainy Sunday afternoon. He’d wanted wood, she’d wanted plastic and they’d argued there in the shop not caring who was listening, until they’d come to an agreement. He could have a wooden panel; she could choose the colour scheme and she had. He looked at the rubber-duck covered walls and smiled; they were garish and completely Cindy.
Unscrewing the cap on the bottle, he poured enough to almost fill the small glass, lifted it to his lips and swallowed it in one gulp. It burnt the back of his throat and he began to cough as it warmed up his insides. Refilling it, he held the glass up: to you, Cindy, wherever you are. I miss you and I’m sorry I messed everything up.
Tears flowed freely down his cheeks now; pent-up months of sadness, guilt and grief poured out of him. He drank again and again, not caring that he might pass out and end up sleeping semi-naked on the floor. All he wanted was to forget it all. The last two years he’d finished up sitting at the kitchen table, every pill from every pot lying across it in a long line. He’d stared at them, willing himself to do it. To take them one by one until he overdosed and sank into unconsciousness; every year he’d failed, waking up in the morning usually to find them strewn across