The Rest Of My Life

The remaining parent looks at me and sighs: "I can't keep holding this space for you. I have to die sometime. Probably sometime soon. Don't feel like I have much life left in me."

It's true, I know. But it makes me feel scared and pressured. Get on with the rest of your life, he's saying. I've been hiding out here. I don't suppose I can hide out much longer.

I think I'm probably one of those people who end up in little hovels surrounded by a heap of cats. They're with me for the food but I pretend they're with me for company. Or love. Except that cats don't love. They just feel contempt. But I'm used to contempt by now. So I can keep company with contempt. It's OK.

I know I need to make a start to figuring out the rest of my life. I've been huddled in this corner, dry retching and the people who pass by, they stop and pat my head kindly and tell me everything is going to be OK.

I shoot them a look sometimes.

Don't they realise that nothing has ever been all right and nothing ever will?

I love my job. That's about the one good thing I have going.

I love my friends. Some of them.

I love my dog. One of them.

But I hate the rest of my life.

Maybe I'll wake up early and figure it out tomorrow.