Seventeen.
Seventeen bottles of bir I have drunk in the past 37 minutes.
Seventeen.
I pick up number eighteen, twist the topi, cap off, and pour it down my throat. It’s tasteless.
I lean my head back against the dinding from where I sit on the floor of my basement.
I see a football. Danny’s football. It used to be Danny’s football. Now it’s just some football my son used to hold, used to play with. It probably smelled like him. Part of me wanted to go pick it up, the other part of me didn’t wanted to be reminded of the last time we played football together.
I pick up number nineteen, and out of the corner of my eye see (Y/N)’s old dolls, something we thought we could use for our little girl someday.
But that’s not going to happen.
I know what happened. I saw their mangled, bruised, broken, dead bodies after their accident.
I pick up number twenty.
“Hmmm… Merry Christmas.” anda mumble.
“I got all of Danny’s presents under the tree.” He says, snuggling down into the katil a little more.
“Did anda remember the football?” anda ask.
“Yeah, I remembered that. It’s the best gift.” He smiles. “He’ll Cinta it.”
“Yeah…” anda mumble.
“Before anda fall back asleep, I have a present for you.” He whispers to you.
“Mhmm?”
He leans over you, menunjukkan anda a black box.
anda open it, to see the most beautiful necklace.
“It was my mom’s.” he mutters. “I thought you’d like it.”
“I Cinta it.”
“Merry Christmas, honey.”
