“I’m sorry about your parents. I didn’t know.”

I know ‘now’ that when it’s blank, his face is a mask for his pain. Back at the time of this conversation, I felt frustrated because I couldn’t read that look.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

I fought to keep my voice controlled.

“We have been friends for more than a year now. How come you’ve never talked about this before?”

With a sardonic smile he said, “When do I ever discuss anything?”

“No, not with me. You’re not like that with me. We talk about everything!”

“Do we? Or do you talk and I listen?”

I hate it when he’s right. I do tend to talk a lot.

“It’s who I am. You knew that right from the start.”

“Of’ course I did. I like it too. Saves me from having to take the initiative.”

I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say anyway.

He sighed and admitted, “It’s not easy to talk about them”

“Okay”

I could understand that. Sure. Then again, I have always been a problem child. Born curious, I wasn’t “designed” to stay quiet for long. He knew that too.

“Do you miss them?”

He smiled. “You really take no for an answer, do you?”

“Fine,” I said, “Don’t tell me. See if I care.”

He just smiled again.

I decided to talk about something else and take both our minds off the topic. Barely a minute had passed, when I realized was still too curious about his parents. I would eventually have to get it out of my system. Curiosity like mine can be called a character flaw I guess. But I have always loved who I am. All my quirks and imperfections included. I interrupted the conversation somewhere between Pink Floyd and Nirvana.

“You’re my best friend. Why can’t you talk to me about this?”

“I ‘am talking to you. I think I have covered almost all bands from that night.”

“You know I’m not talking about that”

“I know”

He was quiet again. I realized he wasn’t going to say anything else. So, of’ course, it was up to me to continue the conversation. Did I mention the problem child part? I guess I did.

“But I too tell you. You should do that too. I can’t help you if you don’t share.”

“Why do you want to help me? Why do you care? I must have asked myself that a thousand times. I still don’t understand. I’m not a good person. You don’t really know me. I don’t “want” to feel better.”

“What do you mean you’re not a good person? We know what you are.”

“You don’t. Not really.”

“Oh yeah? What could be so bad about you?”

I remember watching his jaw clench before he asked,

“Did you know I killed my parents?”

I stood there. Confused and shocked. He slumped on the sofa and covered his face with his hands. It took me a moment to realize he was crying, and yet another to hold him close. Mom must have seen us. She walked in with a glass of water, placed it on the table before him, then just as quietly, she walked out again. I didn’t want to continue the conversation. For the first time in thirteen years, I wasn’t curious. But he decided to tell me anyway.

“Dad loved to paint. I was five when he bought me my first canvas. The following year, I entered a painting competition. I didn’t win but, on our way home, dad told me he had never seen a better drawing, and mom said she wanted a picture with her favourite artist.”

The pride in his voice and the sad smile faded as the next words fell:

“I remember dad smiling at the comment. Mom got the camera ready and I tugged dad’s sleeve to ask him how to pose. He turned and…”

His voice broke as he shut his eyes: “The flash of that camera is the last thing I remember.”

This is the first and last photograph I have of him. A frown on his face, his lips sealed tight. The expression seems like a mix of irritation, surprise and… and something else.

“Survivor’s Guilt”: It’s extremely tough to get over, but not impossible. Life tends to go on. He is now a passionate photographer, an amateur painter, and a successful businessman. It took years of therapy, but he made it. This biographical account was a part of that therapy. He can now talk about what happened. He can paint it too. But he doesn’t allow me, or anyone, to take his picture. I think the past holds our mind captive, even when it frees the body.