“Hey Stevie, what’s up?” I said as I entered the enormous kitchen of our new house in Loveland, Colorado.
But Stevie wasn’t answering because something was very wrong. As wrong as things can be between a father and his son.
In an instant, my sense of dread was electric. The kind that makes every pour on your body quiver.
Why was I even calling Stevie’s name?
I knew he had killed himself right there in the kitchen as I walked across the foyer and saw him lying face-up on the floor.
“Dude, what happened?” I asked, not wanting to give in to my fear, but yet caught up in the perverse excitement of what I might be witnessing, right in our own house.
Next to his lanky, sweat-soaked, ashen-colored, six-foot frame were two objects. I shall not forget them as long as I live; a bottle of vodka and a knife.
Next – The Darkness of Shock and Indecision