Zarius woke with a violent jolt, his heart pounding hard against his ribs. It wasn't a gentle one, more like dragging himself up from something dark and suffocating. His neck ached with stiffness, and the couch creaked as he shifted.
Gods, the air felt awful. The half-empty bottle sat on the table, almost accusing. He'd done it again. Like always. He'd gone back to see it again, stood there staring at the family portrait until it felt like the dead were watching him. Then he came here to drink until the memories dulled.
He rubbed his face, his palms feeling rough against his skin. Every year, it was the same. The closer it got to that day, the same old feeling settled in, like it always did. It was a ritual now. A penance, perhaps? He wasn't sure. He just knew that whenever the date of his parents' death approached, he became a prisoner in his own home, reliving the blood, the screams, and the last look his mother gave him.
