Dying to Forget by Trish Marie Dawson Page B

yourself thing has gotta stop, Sloan,” he says with an empty laugh.
    You don’t have to talk back, just listen.
    He pounds his fists into his temple twice and I know he’s done for the night. I quiet and let his mind wander once again to the TV.
    It’s okay. There’s no rush.
    By the time he heads back downstairs to retrieve his clothes, I’m lost in thought. This is hard. Trying to pick a pathway to steer him onto without completely taking away his free-will is almost impossible. But then I remember the box he has buried in the back of his closet and I get an idea. It might not work, in fact it might back-fire, but I think the risk is worth it, because he also has a gun in that closet.
     
    ***
     
    The daylight has completely faded from the sky, leaving only the light-post on the sidewalk as illumination outside Sloan's bedroom window. The bedside lamp showers a yellow glow across half of the room, creating dark shadows in every corner. He's standing at the foot of the bed, chewing on his lower lip, eyeing the box warily. I so badly want him to open it so I can see exactly what’s inside but if I push too hard he might walk away completely, so I wait…quietly.
    The cardboard is old and the tape that no longer sticks to the lid is faded. It looks as if he’s opened the box many times over the years but it’s been awhile. I can tell by the rising level of his anxiety.
    He blows out a huge gust of air and sits down on the bed, next to the box. It’s a perfect square, maybe two feet on each side, the same amount deep. He reaches for the lid and his hand stills just inches away. I don’t think he’s going to touch it after all but then he flicks the lid off in a flurry, grazing the top with only his fingertips.
    Inside is a large plastic Darth Vader figure, several matchbox cars, a baseball tucked inside a youth’s baseball cap, several postcards of wild animals from the San Diego Zoo gift shop, and a small Bumblebee toy…in car form. There are photo albums at the bottom of the box and some paperwork, as well as messy finger paintings and drawings that Mick and Sloan did together.
    You can do this Sloan.
    He reaches slowly into the box and pulls out each of the toys. He doesn’t touch the ball or cap. But he lays the Vader, Bumblebee and small metal cars out on the bed. After fingering each of them lovingly, he scoops them up using the bottom of his t-shirt like a hammock and heads for the front door.
    In less than five minutes we are downstairs and across the courtyard standing in front of Laundry Mom’s apartment. Sloan is so nervous, I think he’s sweating. When she answers the door she is wearing pajama shorts and a loose fitting sleep shirt, obviously no bra, and I think she’s embarrassed that it’s him on the other side of the screen, judging from the rising color in her cheeks. Her son is somewhere in the back of the apartment, playing loudly with a toy that screeches like a siren. How does this not drive her crazy?!
    “Hi.” She glances at his midsection, curious about the bulge in his shirt. But she’s not afraid… good .
    “Um, hi. I’m Sloan, I live upstairs…uh, we met earlier in the laundry room.” He’s trying to smile…he is so nervous.
    She laughs and her short blonde hair bounces on her shoulders as she nods at him. “Yes, I remember. What can I do for you, Sloan?”
    “Oh. Well,” he opens up the front of his shirt to show her the toys through the screen. She raises an eyebrow at him, confused, and both Sloan and Laundry Mom jump when her son squeals behind her legs. He’s peeking at Sloan from between her knees.
    “Are those for me!” It’s not quite a question, more an excited declaration and Sloan grins down at him.
    “Well, yes…if it’s alright with your mom.” He looks up at her, to see her smiling.
    “Are those really for him?” She says with a laugh as she struggles to keep her young son from scrambling out the flimsy screen door. Eventually she stoops to lift