I remember walking towards the truck with the keys in my hand. To many keys, she always had to many keys. It was warm and the wind was blowing a fair bit. I walked through the police lockup gate and stepped onto the gravel. The gravel was loose and crunched underneath my feet breaking the monotony of my thoughts. My heart felt like it was beating heavy and I had a knot in my stomach just thinking of the mess I was about to get into.
I got over to the door of the vehicle and opened it up. First thought was what a fucking mess this is. Glass was everywhere from when they busted the driver window. It was on the floor and completely covering the driver seat. Blood had pooled on the passenger seat and even more in the back floorboards because the blood had flowed out the back of the seat where it stood.
Looking towards the windshield you could see the perfect hole where the bullet had gone out. Surrounding it all was blood splatter, brains, hair, and skull fragments. All pieces of my mother, the scene total chaos.
After taking it all in for a short while I started cleaning off the seat. The small pieces of shattered plate glass jagged against my hands as I swiped it away. Pieces cutting and tearing at my flesh a little at a time adding my own blood to the morbid scene, completing the family portrait.
Funny how all this seemed to perfectly describe our entire relationship we had our whole life. Explosive and destructive, a never ending cycle of violence bent on destroying one or the other. Yet, when everything in life went to pot we were always there holding up the other. This would be my last time having to do so.