Once upon a time in Lima, Ohio, a young man lived in a big, beautiful house. It was easily one of the most impressive houses in town, set far back from the road and all but surrounded by trees. It was unique in that the windows were made of stained glass, and gargoyles stared down from the balcony. This house almost looked like a church, or a castle. There were three floors, not including the vast basement rec room, complete with pinball machine and air hockey table. The first floor housed a great foyer, a living room with a huge leather couch and big screen TV, a dining room with a polished oak table, and a kitchen that looked like something out of a magazine. On the second floor, there were four bedrooms and two bathrooms, and on the third floor, was yet another bedroom and bathroom. That was his room, the attic. Another big screen TV, an Xbox, a plush king size bed, and a mini fridge stocked with snacks. It was all too appropriate for someone who spent most of his time up there. Because, though he had everything a teen could want, this boy was gruff, brooding, and emotionally withdrawn.

But that's not where our story begins. It starts a few years earlier, on a cold winter's night. A beautiful young woman, about thirty-two years of age, was on her way home in the middle of a snowstorm. She had been to visit her parents in Dayton, and was just about halfway back when the storm hit. Her long, elegant fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, her clear hazel eyes trained on the snowy road in front of her. There was a picture tucked into the mirror above the drivers' seat, a hockey puck hung from her rearview mirror. She had to get home, she didn't need to look at that picture, or even that hockey puck to know what they represented to her. The picture was of a young boy, turning seven years old this week, a joyous smile on his round face as he proudly modelled a brand-new Montreal Canadiens jersey. Her beloved son. She needed to get home to him, she cherished that boy so much that any time spent away from him, was spent missing him. He would have accompanied her to see his grandparents, if his father hadn't reminded them both that he couldn't miss hockey practice. Hockey, she thought smiling. Our family's passion, little David's only ties to his Canadian roots. For now, anyway. Soon, she would take him back home for a visit, soon, he would know where he came from.

Those thoughts melted from the young woman's head, as everything outside of her car turned unbearably white. It all seemed to happen in slow motion- all movement appeared to have stopped, she couldn't seem to keep driving, couldn't move, couldn't feel her body as the world collapsed on itself. All of it was too white, too bright, too slow and too fast all at once.

Dave hurled his dress shoes against the wall of the living room, a strangled "NO!" leaving the young boy's mouth. He turned to stomp upstairs to his room, but a strong hand on his shoulder held him back.

"David" his father said, looking at him with pleading brown eyes. "Please, be good. Be good for Mama."

Biting his lip, Dave met his father's gaze with defiance. "NO! I'm not gonna be good for Mama. I can't- Mama's GONE!"

Paul Karofsky sighed and knelt before his son. "She's not gone, Davey. She might not be here with us, but Mama's in heaven now, watching you. Here" he held out his hands, offering a long-stemmed red rose. "This is a present for Mama. We have to go...give it to her- we'll put it where she can see it."

The round-faced boy frowned at his father's hesitation. "Y-you said she's watchin' me now, Papa. Can't she see us right here?"

His father simply retrieved the thrown shoes and sat young Dave on the couch, placing them on his feet. "Let's go" he said firmly. "We're going to be late."

Dave stared at the rose in his hands. Why couldn't his father answer him? Could Mama see him now, could she see him all the time- or only if they were in a place 'where she could see them'? And where was that place? He was confused, and felt kind of sick- he just wanted Mama there. She'd tell him it was going to be alright.

But she couldn't, now. She was gone. Dave may have been a child, barely seven, but he knew she was gone. If he didn't know for sure, before, he knew now. Watching all the people, dressed in fancy black clothes and crying. Standing around a giant hole in the ground, a cold gray stone which read:

Nadja Liliane Karofsky, 1969-2001. Beloved daughter, wife and mother.

Mama. She really was gone. Dave placed the rose beside the stone. The petals were already beginning to fall off. There was a strange feeling in his chest, too cold, as though his heart were turning to ice. He stared at the grave, the difference between the red rose and the gray stone. Cold and hard, protected. His heart was turning to stone.

Dave followed his father back to their car, back to their big, beautiful house. It had always been too big for just the three of them- Mama had talked about Dave having a little brother or sister someday- but now, it seemed way too empty. She wasn't there. There was no sweet voice calling out to him when he got home from school. No cooking smells and music wafting from the kitchen. No soft hands with long fingers on his face as she kissed him goodnight.

His seventh birthday passed like a dream, a nightmare in fact. Dave didn't want the friends over from school, the cake, the presents, the pictures. What could he possibly wish for, when that cake with seven lit candles was placed in front of him? He'd never get what he really wanted. Dave remained quiet the entire day, and returned to his room once everyone had left. He stared into his bathroom mirror, taking in the furrow of his brow, the dark bags under his eyes, his bottom lip between his teeth. He didn't look like himself. He looked like...a monster.

"NO!" Dave cried, storming back into his room. He picked up a framed picture from his desk, the one of him smiling in his Canadiens jersey, and threw it across the room. That wasn't him anymore.

His father had tried to give him a good birthday, but it was too soon. She hadn't been gone a week. Paul kept trying, even as Dave got older, and even if it wasn't his birthday. He bought his son anything, everything, he tried, but David was gone. The quiet, angry boy up in that room wasn't the son he once knew. Always glued to his video games, his computer or his cell phone, never wanting to talk much. He got angry far too quickly. Eventually, Paul stopped trying- he just left his son alone. As the years passed, Dave fell into despair. Who would ever love him as much as Mama had?