Windows of the Past

 "What the fuck is wrong with me?" Anthony repeated as a mantra as he slammed the phoned down on Dr. Barclay. "Snap out of it Pellecano. You're fine," he instructed himself.

Walking down the street his mind is spinning and can't shake the image of Tristan from his mind. He glances at the store front windows lining the street and sees a hazy image of a person. It becomes clearer with each window.

"Tristan? No no no no. Fuck....calm down Pellecano " He whispers to himself running one hand over his face. The image refuses to be cleared from his vision. Walking faster now, he whips his eyes from the window to the road trying to focus on something else...anything else.

The disembodied face appears on every car window, one after another. After the 20th or maybe 100th car he finally reaches his flat. Before he enters his apartment he glances over his shoulder back to the street and sees Tristan standing in the middle of the street with cars racing by on either side. 

Slamming the door behind him he throws his keys down and immediately pours a generous glass of whiskey. Once settled on the couch he takes a swig of his drink and slams it down on the coffee table.

"Oh fuck," he exclaims as his eyes meet the envelope resting on the center of the table with the picture of Tristan next to it. "I thought I had that in the desk drawer.....and the photo....", he said to himself. He immediately grabs his wallet, the place he keeps that picture, the only place he keeps a photo of Tristan. Sure enough the picture was not in the wallet. "You just must had a little too much Whiskey and got a little sentimental....that's it. Just got a little too drunk and forgot you took the letter and photo out." Picking up the envelope he reads it for the first time since placing it in the desk drawer a little over a month ago.  The enveloped is addressed to him at his and Tristan's home in New York. On the top left corner Tristan's name is written in his tidy hand writing with his parents London address beneath, post marked the day of his death.

He takes the letter and tucks it in the very back of the desk drawer, shuts the drawer, and locks it. He slams the rest of his whiskey and shoves the photo back into his wallet unable to look at the face staring up at him. 


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