I don't call Mike. Because honestly, he seems too good to be true, and if I've learned anything from my 23 years on earth, it's that if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. I have to plan the funeral anyway.
My dad left everything to me, which pissed my sister off to no avail, but she was too preoccupied in London and Manchester and Paris to even care about coming home for his funeral.
My oldest brother was too tied up with being a neurosurgeon to come home for a week, which is normal.
My brother can't get leave from the airforce which is understandable, but leaves me to fend for myself.
So I wrap myself up in my work, pumping out at least three articles and sending them in before really cracking down on arranging the funeral. It didn't take long, but after I had sent out the invitations, arranged the flowers, the funeral home and bought a plot of land and a casket it had felt like months.
I don't know if it was a conscious decision not to call Mike or if it was the fact that I have mommy issues and a busy schedule and would probably end up ruining our relationship before it had even got started.
I like to think I'm not a cliché but to be honest I probably am. My mom left pretty early on, but I never cared much. My dad is dead, but I'm not overly sad about it. Not as sad as I should be. I don't have many friends. Maybe three, and that's including my now dead father and younger brother. He was my everything, honestly. He was old though, and sick and in pain, so while I'm not so sad for him, I'm sad for me because I am so lonely here by myself.
I lift the bottle of rum to my mouth again and tilt my head back when my lips are loosely wrapped around it, which causes a stream of alcohol to pour from the bottle and directly onto my shirt. I can feel the burn of the rum as it pours down my throat, seemingly lighting it on fire. I can feel the burn all the way down in my stomach.
I slam the bottle back down on the counter and rest my head in the crook of my arm. If I'm already getting hung over it means that I'm either not drinking quick enough, or that I'm going to have a hell of a hang over tomorrow. I decide to put the alcohol away and start packing my stuff up. This house is on a lot of property, but it's far away from work, so I'm renting a house by the beach, it's closer to work and it doesn't remind me of dad being dead. One of my siblings biggest concerns was me selling the house in which we all grew up in. Of course it's not any of their business, they don't spend time in it anyway. But because my brother Walt asked, I told him I was just renting it out.
Walt (my brother) is on 'Clinton-Sherman Airforce base' in Oklahoma, and won't be able to get leave until Christmas, which is rapidly approaching. Christmas doesn't affect anything in Malibu, it's always hot all the time, and it sucks. I visit my brother pretty often. He's happy there, but I worry about him still.
I can't even walk in a straight line at this point, so I close my boxes and try to stand up with the aid of my dresser. I manage to stand but I keep my grip firmly on my dresser.
God, I'm so alone.
I break down in tears and stumble down the stairs to where our blue phone sits on the dial receiver. I pick it up, not exactly sure who I'm going to call and then like a sign from heaven, I notice the messily written phone number on the back of an old receipt. I pick it up and hastily dial the number, pressing harshly on each number. And then I do the exact opposite of what I wanted to do, I bring Mike into all my problems in the worst possible way.
