[Fiction] Love Letters to Myself, Part Four

It was intoxicating like drinking scotch is intoxicating.  You drink one finger of it and you’re doing fine, a second and the burn might sting a little more.  Then, a third.  All the while you’re sitting at a bar, maybe on your own couch thinking everything is fine and dandy when it smacks you in the face like a brick wall.  You’re drunk.  The ground suddenly pulls out from beneath your feet and everything feels fuzzy.  Your head is twisted in knots and you can’t tell up from down.

Mom wanted to take me with her the night she left dad for Rick Morrison, but she couldn’t she said, who was going to take care of Bob the cat?  I loved Bob, so I watched from the base of the stairs as she frantically ran up and down, shoving whatever clothes she could find into a large bag that had been tossed out into the middle of the hall.  Rick had been waiting outside in his car, ready to race away as soon as she was done packing — before her husband got home.

Rick Morrison?  Rick fucking Morrison?  That son of a bitch rang through the whole house when dad got back from picking James up from the airport.  It was late, and he had just missed his wife’s getaway by minutes.  Her scolded me for not stopping her, but I let her go.

Bob the cat liked to lay underneath the SUV on hot summer days, and when dad accidentally ran him over on his way to the grocery store, I locked myself in my room and pinned a sign to the door that read “No Old Men Allowed.”


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Indigo is a writer living out of Seattle. She plays a lot of video games.

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