I hate to mourn about my mother, it's been nine years since she left the earth and these damned people, it's irrational for me to still have to grieve. But I guess my not knowing what life could've or would've really been like with her, is what I grieve for most; the deprivation of something that could have been great.

Not that life isn't great now. It is, it's thrilling and mysterious, thus, great. The snow outside the house means staying in for the whole of the Christmas break, thus, even better. The thought of meaningless study when the world is oh so "great" sends shivers all through my body.

"Sure. Say hi for me."

"'Course sweetie." And he kissed my forehead.

He is my father -in some perspective anyway-, the "replacement" of both former biological parents if you will. He'd been with my mother since before I was born. Actually, I was supposed to be his child; You see, I'm the bad recollection of an intoxicated evening, sinful infatuation and careless infidelity. Bless Steve -the man i call dad- for still loving me as his own. My real father however, I've not ever heard from, though I've heard he was a dangerous man, who might've gotten into a dangerous circumstance in which there had been a fatal consequence on his behalf. Poor man.

The door shut and I heard the muffled sound of shuffling keys from outside the oak wood which then lead to a car door opening and our cheap Golf 92' driving off in a hesitant and noisy huff, scratching the thick snow as it hassled along fighting to stay above the unstable surface. My initial reaction to sudden solitude was to dig into the fridge for something tasty to binge on whilst watching the afternoon news, but thinking twice over, I decided to leave the house, despite the accumulating snow. I reached for the coat in the stuffy room beside the front door, and stretched my arm in in search of the light switch. The thick wooly jumpers and coats had been carelessly wedged into the little room, and it took me a while to find the one I was looking for, but after feeling around for a frustrating and rough 5 minutes I found the one and grabbed for my trainers.

It was colder outside than I'd thought, but growing up here, in my all too familiar hometown, I was more then used to the shifty temperatures. Every year they decide for a more unexpected and more dramatic climate, then again that might just be evident effects of the world's hassle with global warming, but I couldn't care less.

The town was close to empty, I'd say pretty much close to dead, except for the few bodies wondering around in a frantic rush to stock up on supplies for if or when the snow gets to high to leave the house. Not all were familiar faces though, it's not that small a town. I walked into the department store and looked around for a bit, observing different products as if I had nothing better to do, which was the case.

"Hey, Des right?" said a guy appearing in the isle I was "investigating". He'd seen me enter the store and I could tell he was trying to figure out how he knew me. Evidently I knew him far better then he did me, mind you I barely recognized him at all for that matter.

"That's right. You.. are... Smith?" I guessed. He chuckled and began to correct me when I interrupted suddenly recalling his name. "Ben! Sorry, I don't know where Smith popped up."

"That's my brother.. It's alright. I thought I recognized you. No matter, anything I can help you out with then?" he said looking at me charmingly, yet not in a flirtatious or interested manner, more of a friendly deed I'd say.

"There isn't for the moment no, I'm sorry. But come back later and I may have come up with an excuse for being here at all." I joked.

"I have lunch break, you want to drop by the cafe next door and have a chat?" he asked. I hesitated, but he seemed like the kind of friend who wouldn't bite.

"Sure."

I walked home, colder then before, hands tightly gripping at the inside of my coats pockets, trying to find a spot where the cold might not have reached just yet. I looked over my shoulder back at the mild traffic, people who'd had lunch in the town center were making their way home and what with the snow on the roads, driving just seems like an inconvenience.

The house was just as dead as when I'd left it, life trapped inside. The life outside seemed like it was being shielded by the house's walls. I ran upstairs to get changed into some more comfortable clothes, and nearly tripped on one of the steps as I carried on up to my bedroom which was the only room on the second floor. Dad's room was downstairs, he preferred the room closest to the kitchen.

As I entered the room I caught a glimpse of a little black box I'd once known, in the corner of my eye. Just like I had done for nine years, I didn't think twice of it and rushed to my wardrobe, turning on my laptop on the way to it. The room seemed duller then usual, haunted in some ways. No matter how hard I try every time I do anything in my room, may it be getting changed, reading mail or trying to get some sleep, I can never ignore that agonizing voice reminding me of that damned box. As if hell was in it, tempting me. I don't know, I feel watched by it, a reason why I spend most of my time, well, not, in my room. It would be such a simple gesture to burn it, get rid of my ghosts, but just like looking directly at it, I've never found the will to do it. My memories and my feelings of what went on when my mother died are only dead because I haven't opened that box. Opening it would answer everything for me, but I'm too afraid, always have been. I don't want or need to know the truth. What happened to my mother doesn't matter anymore.