His mother killed herself four years after he was born.
It wasn't his fault or hers really. The voices had just gotten too loud and no one was there to stop them. It was quiet -- pills, too many and some orange juice; a soft death for a soft woman.
His father sold the house, with the wind chimes on the porch and an apple tree in the backyard, and moved them into a small ground floor apartment in the city. The bathroom was too small, the screen door slammed and it didn't feel like home.
He doesn't remember the funeral much, just a stiff black shirt, a loud church organ and shiny shoes that he could stare at for hours. He hadn't laughed or giggled when he saw his face distorted and colorless in the reflection of his shoes. He knew.
At four years old, he knew.
--
His father left five years after the death of his mother.
He didn't take much, just a few button-downs shoved haphazardly into a small black suitcase, the leather wallet that he loved so much because it had her picture in it, the twenty-two dollars and sixty-one cents that was in emergencies jar on the kitchen counter and fatherhood.
His father had tucked him in earlier; ruffled his dark hair, kissed his head softly then left quietly. He was asleep in bed, not hearing the creaks of the stairs, the suitcase banging down each step, the hacked coughs or the slam of the screen door.
But in the morning, he didn't scream or cry or drown himself in disbelief. He called his grandmother and let her wonder and call friends and family and dive into the sea of grief. He knew.
At nine years old, he knew.
--
His grandmother died eight years after his father left.
She was brash and loud, the crazy bat lady of the street, with thin blue hair and sagged, wrinkly skin. She died of a stroke in her bright green armchair, a Japanese cooking show on the television, her knitting needles still in her hands, a half done scarf or hat tangled on the ends (she made it for him).
He comforted himself with the fact that she died in her home like she wanted, not surrounded by cold hospital sheets and bleeping monitors. He mourned her quickly, not really surprised that another person had left him.
Another house was sold and a trust fund was set up with all his grandmother's assets. He became a ward of state for two months, living with a pleasant woman in a too-happy house; the walls painted bright yellows and pinks, small embroidered pillows placed on the uncomfortable couch.
His birthday passed and the next week, he was gone, a little note with the proper thank you's found the next morning. He thought about genetics and hereditary traits and family genes and how since he was eight, he wanted to leave, like both his parents, how he couldn't stay in one place for too long, with any one person because he'd go insane. He knew.
At eighteen, he knew.
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