I try not to enter Brendan's bedroom. It has been four months and it still smells of death. Today, as I open the door nausea overtakes me. I placed a small rug down to cover the vomit stain, but the edges of Brendan's body fluids still peek out, taunting me, daring me to break down and never recover.
His hockey equipment is lying on the carpet with the bag open so that his sweaty items don't grow mold. His empty soda cans and old gum wrappers are still on his nightstand where he left them.
All of the items from his brand new custom ordered 2015 orange RAV4 are stacked on his bed: a box of chocolates, his school work, a Columbine keychain, his NA tags that mark his sobriety, and all of the garbage I could not bear to throw away.
Heroin addiction has ruined our family. The day my 15-year-old son, Brendan, took his first hit, he changed my life. Yes, not just his, but mine too. And not just mine, everyone who loved him.
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