My blood cooled immediately and I turned the picture over to read the dark red script scrawled across the back.
How many do you think he’s
had since he left?
I'll be here for you when
he hurts you, but don’t think
I won’t say I told you so.
I was furious at the timing. Of course it would come right after my doubts had reared their ugly heads about my path in life. I stashed the note with all the others and fired up my laptop.
An aggravated roar ripped through my lips as I glared at my computer screen. My eyes were blurry from staring at the screen for hours. The numerous failed attempts at the different stories I had tried to write was repulsive. I would’ve happily chucked my laptop out the window without an ounce of regret. Resigned to the fact I wasn't going to write anything worthwhile, I turned it off, giving it a disgusted look before walking downstairs.
My stomach growled, as if it were as disappointed as I was with my failed writing attempt. I texted Kill to let him know what a failure I was as I put a bagel in the toaster. Kill responded right before he was about to go onstage, making me promise I would stop trying to force mysomething.
Why he thought I’d be able to write anything that wasn't poo on paper was beyond me. I didn't want him to worry while he was onstage, and I was afraid I sounded like a whiny bitch, so I texted him back telling him he was right and I loved him.
I loved reading and getting lost in other people’s stories. Why couldn't I create the same effect? With that thought, the proverbial light bulb lit above my head.
An idea started forming, brewing as I chewed. I didn't know if it would work, but it was worth a shot.
I snatched a Diet Pepsi from the fridge, and headed upstairs. As my computer turned on I no longer felt the hatred for it I had minutes ago. I gazed at the blank white page and blinking cursor as it teased me. Every flash taunted me, willing me to make it move across the page.
I realized I’d been procrastinating, afraid I wasn't strong enough to allow my story to materialize in the real world for others to see. If I did this, I’d have to face my past, and I refused to do it half assed.
My hands were clammy on the keyboard, and I snatched them away. I took a long drink, before poising my fingers back in place.
And then I started to write.
My fingers flew as I wrote about a little girl named Hope. Using false names was the only lie I would allow myself. Hope was born to the greatest father a little girl could have and a mother who shouldn’t have been allowed to have babies.
Tears streamed down my face as I wrote about Hope's fourth birthday party. I made sure to include every detail I could remember. By the time my eyes were burning from exhaustion, I’d written over twenty pages.
My soul felt lighter. I was no longer writing about my life; I was transferring it to Hope. The whole process was purifying. I imagined the feeling must be similar to what a person who had just endured an intense therapy session would feel.
I wondered if I could actually package my life away on a computer screen, so I could walk away from the wreckage. Saving everything I’d expelled, I got ready for bed.
My phone charged by my head as I fell asleep, and I jerked awake when it blared in my ear.
“Hey, Slick.” His voice brought me closer to the surface of wakefulness.
“Hey, Killer. How was the show?” I didn’t bother moving, instead I laid the phone under my head on my pillow.
“It was fucking insane. We just got back from dinner. Have I told you how much I miss your cooking? Anyways, peopled totally recognized us. It was crazy. Security had to remove some chick when she threw herself at D, as she screamed she was pregnant with his baby.”
Poor D, out of all the band members she had to pick him. I wished they would have taken a picture when that claim was made.
“You should’ve seen him." Kill laughed so hard he stopped talking to get himself under control. "D started backpedaling and stuttering. I’ve never seen his face look so pale before.”
We were both howling over the phone. I had to wipe away the tears rolling down my face. D yelled in the background, “Shut the fuck up!” Everyone on the bus burst out laughing. When we got ourselves under control, an unexpected yawn tore out of me.
“I'm sorry I called you so late. I couldn't resist hearing your voice before I went to bed. I also wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I'm better. Don't worry about me; I just needed to vent,” I said as my eyelids fought to stay open.
"Of course, I'm going to worry about you. You're my girl."
