I put in hours, days, of my life for this project.
My pencil creases the paper, and my hand hurts like a bitch but there's no way in hell I'm giving up. I won't be disappointed in myself.
"Daddy?!" He yells from down the hallway, like there's any chance I'll answer him. "Dad?" I hear his socks pad down the hallway and into my room; my sanctuary.
"Hey Dad, what's up? Mom told me to tell you that she wants you to come with us to Aunt Macey's baby shower."
My pencil doesn't stop moving on the page. "Tell your mother that I've got work to do." I knew she would hear me from where she was downstairs in the kitchen. His mother never learned to confront issues. It's why I've gotten away with practically ignoring her existence for 5 years.
"But it'll be a lot of fun." From the corner of my eye, I see him give me a weak smile. I'd feel bad, but I know he doesn't want to see his Aunt Macey either, let alone a pregnant one.
"Wait, do they give baby showers before or after the baby is born?" I ask him. I take a pause in my writing to look up, but he's already gone.
After hours of writing, my brain has had enough. I flop down on the bed next to my desk and am out within minutes. My dreams are vivid, but empty of meaning. As always.
I wake up and drag myself out of bed, going into the bathroom adjoining my room to wash my face. I'm ready for a cup of coffee, and I would send my son to get it, but from the rare quiet in the house I assume everyone has left. Why do people feel the need to go to those things?
When I walk out of my room, I notice something.
What happened to all my son's stuff? I forget about the coffee, and walk through the open door to his room. The sheets are gone from his bed, and his sleazy posters are off the walls.
I search the rest of the house, looking for signs of life. Nothing, excluding all the glasses left in the kitchen cupboards. What the hell would I do with all these cups? And If they were moving out, why would they invite me to some baby shower? And how in the world did they move out without me noticing?
Oh God. Whens the last time I've been out of my room? Have I been sending my son off to fetch me food for this long?
No. This is impossible. I would've at least heard them...
I stand awkwardly in the middle of my (and only my, it seems) kitchen, thinking.
After a few moments, I rush up to my office. I rip my notebook into pieces. This story has been the ruin of me. Plus, I’ve got a new idea.
I find a new notebook and pencil in my drawer, and begin again.
