Let’s Keep It Real
The rain was pouring down that Tuesday afternoon when Roman stopped his black Mercedes in front of the cemetery gates. Exactly six months had passed since that terrible accident. Six months since they had buried that coffin, which was too small, too light.
Six months since his life had turned into an empty hell. He got out of the car with a bouquet of red roses trembling in his hands. His expensive shoes sank into the mud on the path, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore since he lost Misha.
The sound of raindrops hitting the tombstones was the only noise in the deserted cemetery. Roman walked slowly, as he always did, delaying the moment he would have to approach his son's grave. Every step was painful, every breath burned. It was then that he saw a small figure, standing with its back to him, right in front of Misha's headstone.
A boy, too thin, in soaked old clothes, with a homemade wooden crutch supporting his twisted body. The boy slowly turned around and whispered words that made Roman's world collapse for the second time. "Dad, it's me. I'm alive."
Roman felt his legs give way; the roses slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud. That voice, that way of speaking… But it couldn't be, it was impossible. "Who? Who are you?" was all he could ask, his voice hoarse and broken.
The boy took a limping step towards him. The crutch sank into the wet ground, but he kept his balance. On his thin face was a huge scar, crossing from his left eye to his chin. His right leg was twisted, deformed.
But the eyes… Oh my God, those brown eyes were exactly like Misha's. "Dad, it's me, Misha. Your son." The boy was trembling, and not just from the cold. He was trembling from fear, from excitement, from everything at once.
"I didn't die in that accident. I survived, but no one… no one recognized me." Roman felt the world spin. Six months. For six months, he had cried every night.
For six months, he had drowned himself in whiskey, trying to forget the pain. For six months, he had woken up screaming, dreaming of the accident that killed his only son. "This isn't happening," Roman muttered, clutching his head in his hands.
"You're not real. It's the drink. It's my head playing tricks on me again." "No, Dad. Please, listen to me." The boy tried to get closer, but his crutch slipped, and he almost fell.
Roman instinctively stepped forward but stopped halfway. He couldn't. If this was true, if this was real… Dear God. He wouldn't be able to bear it if it turned out to be a lie.
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