Dear Artie,

Where are you? Mom drank again today. It’s been worse. She brought a foreign alcohol home but she won’t drink it. She just sits there drinking wine by the bottle and stares at it. I don’t know what to do. Mom drinks whenever she’s home from work. What did we do that sent Dad away? She still won’t tell me anything about him. Just that he’s a good person. He’ll come back. I just need to be patient.

I’ve been patient Artie. I’ve spent a year waiting for you and spent five years only waiting for Dad. I’ve spent six years waiting for someone who left me behind to come back and get me. To take me along with them so I’m not alone. No one wants to be friends with me. Mom doesn’t talk to me; she still spends all day at her company. I’ve asked her to take me but she won’t. I don’t know why.

I miss you. I really miss you. I miss your hugs. I miss dancing in the rain with you. I miss being your everything. Is college really that exciting? Is there really a world like the ones you’ve told me so many stories about out there? You don’t even need to stay here. I just need you to come back so I can leave with you. I can’t stand being here anymore. I had someone when you were here.

I’ve thought about breaking our promise a lot recently. Giving up would be so much easier but actually giving up is just too hard. I want to be able to give up. I don’t know why I can’t. I want to give up waiting for you. I’ve tried calling you. I’ve tried calling Dad. Where are you?

I tried Mom’s alcohol. The one she glares at. I don’t like it, but it’s a much better alternative to the dry red wines she keeps drinking. It’s much sweeter and fruitier. It makes life easy to forget too. She hasn’t figured out I’m the reason it keeps disappearing. I make sure to leave the bottles smashed on the ground and I only drink it when she’s dead drunk. She still hasn’t realized that every time she brings one of the bottles home it disappears. I’m not completely careless. The whole world melts away when you drink the burning liquid. It makes sick days all the more real. No one questions if you’re throwing up, looking like you haven’t slept and can’t stand a single noise because of a spilling headache. They all chalk it up to some sickness but never a hangover.

I’m proud of myself Artie. I’ve spent a year by myself. I’m almost fourteen. Which means I almost only have four years until I can get out of this house and away from Mom. I’m excited for when I can leave. I don’t want to have to dodge poorly aimed wine bottles or the occasional beer can—she doesn’t drink any hard liquor now. Once you left she stopped drinking rum like water. The only thing she asked about you the whole year is if you’ve really left. Not how you’re doing or where you are. Just if you’re really gone from her life.

She’s happy. I’m miserable.

Where are you?

———————————

“You couldn’t sleep either?”

Every time Arthur closed his eyes, his mind was instantly awakened with memories of all the times he has let down Mille and all the times he let down everyone around him. He didn’t want to wake the rest of the cabin, but he also figured that if sleep was going to evade him he should get back to writing. Word count was everything to an author. Well that and having a decent sounding story and Arthur didn’t think this story was going down the right path. He was currently making the hard decision: continue writing this flop or crank out a new seven-million-word story that would probably be just as bad. Everything just felt like a carbon copy of his New York Times Best Seller Extra-dite.

“I’m an author. We’re known for sleepless nights and vivid imaginations that won’t go to sleep.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“You remind me of someone I met once.”

“And that person just happens to be that funny that every time you think of them you chuckle?”

“No, in fact this woman was the most reserved person. She was an immigrant—running away from her family duties. But man, she had the best imagination and could describe for you a scene exactly as it was if she only saw it once. She was a true artist in everything she did.”

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“She was—no she is.”

“You still keep in touch with her?”

“Sadly no, her family found her and brought her back.”

“Was her family really that bad?”

“It wasn’t. She just wanted her own freedom and her family rules stated that she had no choice but to obey the words of her elders or any males in her family. Being a part of a revered ancient family has its downsides, not everything is money growing on trees.”

“Sounds just as inviting as being a famous author.”

“I’d imagine it’s the dream of every author.”

“That it is, but they don’t tell you of the expectations your readers have of you nor do they tell of the crazy fans who stalk you.”

“Hold on a second, people don’t just stalk celebrities?”

“You’d be surprised at what fans do sometimes.”

“That sounds wild. I don’t think I could get used to that.”

“I had a girl once ask me if I was willing to help her have a child. I’m pretty sure she just wanted to say she had sex with me.”

“Free sex? Now that sounds like a perk.”

“Not until you get into all the details. Relationships just aren’t for me. I’m just going to stay single I think. It’s part of my curse.”

“I may not know much, but I’m pretty sure curses don’t exist.”

“No, they do.”

“I think you’re mistaken son.”

“Who are you? My father? My father up and ran off eleven years ago. I don’t think he’s even deserving of being called a father.”

While Arthur was aware that he had snapped at the man he barely knew, the resentment that had stewed inside since he became conscious of his status burst through the dam at the simple three-letter word. It was just too much. Too soon. The silence that stretched between the two grew sharp and carved a chasm between them.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware I overstepped.”

As the words lingered in the air, the elderly gentleman turned and left the cold, dark kitchen. If Arthur’s jaw wasn’t clenched in anger and he wasn’t burning holes into the wooden wall with his glaze he would have realized that the soft creak of a door was followed by two whispered voices before they cut off with a gentle slam. Too many thoughts raced around Arthur’s head for him to notice much. Chasing those thoughts brought him nowhere good—a lesson Arthur learned many years ago. It was not that the gentleman was trying to attack him, it was that the gentleman had ripped the bandaid off a festering bone-deep wound.

At a young age Arthur had learned how much of a failure he was. If he wasn’t born then his family would still be whole. No one could convince him that it was not his fault. While joy and happiness were fleeting in his childhood, he would forever remember the joy that filled him when he first met Mille. She was named after the great Italian city that could be called home to many of the greatest Fashion Houses. She was destined to be great. If only, if only he didn’t exist she might have reached her potential. She might have been someone great. At least, that’s what Arthur thought.

That’s why he left. He thought that if he took the hurricane of destruction that always seemed to follow him away from Mille, she would be able to flourish. But he was wrong. He was so wrong. So, so, so wrong. Because Arthur couldn’t see past the image forced upon him, he couldn’t see that what he thought to be a hurricane was a rock that Mille relied on. He’d effectively crippled her when he left. With her foothold gone, she was left floundering in a cruel world she knew nothing of with no one to rely on.

That’s why she drank. She thought that if she took away the soul crushing pain that she couldn’t escape, Mom would be able to return. But she was wrong. She was so wrong. So, so, so wrong. Because Mille was constantly stuck in a drunken haze, she couldn’t see the effect her actions had on the already strained and snapping family relations. The alcoholic stench that clouded around her was masked with too much perfume and a stockpile of breath mints. If it weren’t for Arthur publishing Extra-dite and sending her the first copy of the published book she would have most likely died from alcohol poisoning.