My mother didn't care. She had no regret or concern about being an egotistical, resentful woman. Despite the fact that my father was in hospital, this clearly made no impact on her. Then again, who can blame her for not caring for him when all he did was wallow in self-pity and take irreversible choices that eventually led to alcoholism?
I've written a couple songs about the situation. The words beg for attention and make me seem over dramatic. Not worth publishing at all.
Another thing about my mother is that she isn't somebody you can easily connect with. And as for my father, well, his bringing me up was pointless, plus he and I don't get along. Ultimately, this means I have nobody to have mutual discussions about my thoughts or feelings with. Not that I want to, anyway. I'd say I'm quite confused. I don't have a clue who I am. Maybe it's best.
In other news, I was ready to tell somebody up at the offices that I no longer wanted to participate in this lonesome, undignified shithole. Somebody may as well know before I suddenly pack my stuff and get the hell out. I made my way down the hall, thinking about leaving, whilst I avoided thinking about having to speak to someone who would probably question me on my life decisions. Before I could get to the stairway, I heard something that caught my ear. Somebody singing. It was a male voice, which sounded kind of unique, and it was coming from the end room. I was intrigued. As I got closer to the door, I could hear the soft sound of an acoustic guitar accompanying his melodic, fluent voice. There was an unexpected huff, followed by footsteps which began to get increasingly-
The man I had met yesterday stood, door wide open, surprised. Brendon. I was embarrassed, which was probably made clear. "What the fuck?" He frowned, on the urge of closing the door. "Wait, um, I was just going to, um, see if you could help me," great. Nice fucking save, asshole. Pfft. "Oh," His face removed visible harsh feelings and became squishy again. "Well, come in," He smiled. "Thanks. I gotta say, I admire your playing and, um, your singing was, uh, pretty cool," Who was I kidding? It was beautiful. "Thanks." He chuckled softly. "So, what did you want my help with?"
"Well, I wanna write something new, but I have no ideas, so I was just looking for some help and well, you're the only person I know of so," Brendon gestured for me to take a seat on his bedside. He sat himself down at his desk, which was cluttered with all sorts of junk. "Sure, I'll help! Sorry about the mess," He said, shoving stuff into his drawers to make it seem a little less messy. The first time I saw him he wasn't wearing glasses. I figure this was probably why he had no clue where he was going, and why my papers are discarded. Nevertheless, he had glasses on now, and they suited him. I'll also point out that he was pushing them up pretty excessively. I admired that. Trust me to pick up on the tiniest of details. It's what determines if I like a person or not, I guess. "So, Ryan, you got anything in mind?" He asked, swivelling around to face me. "Not really. The story I wrote before this was a romance novel. I enjoyed writing it. Guess I'm not good enough at writing that sort of thing, though." This much was true. If I was any good, I wouldn't even be here. Even if I did doubt myself. "I'm sure it wasn't," He replied reassuringly, "Well, it's an idea to start with. A romance novel." I could. However, I'd probably mess up. "Yeah," I answered, looking around the room, unsure of what I should say. I fiddled with my hands until finally he spoke, "Have you ever been in love?" He crossed his legs on the chair and adjusted his frames. What sort of question was that? "No. Not that I recall." I replied, feeling the conversation became slightly vexatious. "You've never been in love? You gotta be kidding me, right?" He seemed so casual about it. We were young, vulnerable. How were we supposed to know the meaning of love? I shook my head and looked up to meet his bright, warm eyes. "Wow. So, you're telling me you wrote a story about something you have no idea about? No empathy whatsoever?"
Holy shit. How could I...
"Yeah, I... I guess that thought never occurred to me," I mumbled, still perplexed. Maybe he was in love. Or perhaps he thought he was. "I've got a girl," He boasted, patting his hair to smooth it out. "Oh," I said, thinking all the more. "What?" He questioned.
"No, um, nothing, I just... I have to go," I rushed up to a stand, and Brendon looked at me, concerned. He didn't say anything as I sped out of his room.
I needed to be alone. This much interaction was forbidden in my books, especially with one that held a conversation like that. Something made me want to leave, though I'm not sure what. Of course, I felt guilty for just randomly leaving like that, but staying wasn't an option at that point. Just, don't ask why.
The moonlight shone through my window, entering my room and lighting up the overpowering darkness. I looked out, to gaze beyond the city streets, decorated with small glows of passion and artificial sparks. My pyjamas made me feel warmer and dragged me to my bed. There I laid, with thoughts swimming through my head. About how some day I hoped to find love, and then I would write.
Writing about something you've never felt before is difficult, so you should learn to write about new experiences. New experiences. Huh.
I shut my eyes, and I realised I shouldn't have, because from that moment on, I didn't stop thinking about it.