It Hurts To Know His

Day 2:1

I wrote him a letter. Like mere words confined to the unenthusiastic boundaries of the English language could really express the pain confusion and hurt piercing through the very essence of my being. So I kept it short and simple with a message that was crystal clear. I gripped the pen so tightly and wrote so furiously it was startling that I didn't end up breaking my hand in the process of repairing my broken heart.2

I scribbled away carefully choosing the words in my head though they came at an intensely fast speed. Starting with complements (my father you see is one of hidden conceit and hates people not thinking of him as the great I Am), I delicately addressed his alcohol problem stating 'if you love me, you will stop' and throwing in my exams (he also seems to doubt my intelligence) and how I don't need the extra stress at this point in time. Signing off with 'I love you x x x' I wiped a tear from my eye and prepared to leave.3

Leaving the letter, written on white, blue lined paper in greyish black ink on his small dark wooden table with a metal frame, I put my pad back in my bag and put his pen on the big table exactly where he had left it lest he accuses me of interfering in his things. Putting on my coat and stepping into the black afternoon (due to English seasons it now gets pitch black at 5pm) I lock the door behind me and walk home contemplating whether I mean more to him than his bottle devoid of emotion and kindness. Quite like himself really.4

And it hurts to know his rum is a bigger part of him than I ever will b