The storm clouds filling the sky look almost as pissed off as I feel right now, if clouds can look angry. The wind is howling so damn loud I can't even think. My very bones shift and rattle under my skin as the thunder crashes and shakes the whole fucking house.
Damn you, tomato bastard, for leaving me here alone.
I hate it when you're gone.
The house seems empty and wrong without you. Everything about it is wrong. At night, the bed seems too big, like it doesn't fit any more.
I hope you know what this does to me, you asshole. I can't do anything right. I make enough dinner for 2 people; I break things and burn food because I'm focused on your sorry ass, out at war and risking your life; I keep tripping over your damn vases and couches and shit that's scattered everywhere because I'm too focused on what I'm thinking, and not on where I'm going.
I can't seem to operate when you're gone.
And I know I might not say a lot of things, but I never said that I never loved you, you ass. And now that you're gone, it's probably too late for me to say everything.
You went to war gladly, and as fast as you went that time you and your friends started skating around on bars of soap and I had to clean up after you. You promised you'd come back alive and whole and okay. You promised that I would be safe, that we'd all be safe, once you beat their sorry asses. You promised that you knew you would win.
You know what? Stop fucking promising. You don't know for sure that you can keep any promises you make.
Dammit! Just come back home as fast as you left it and promise me just that you won't promise any more.
Come back home, Antonio.
Then maybe, just maybe, I'll take the chain from off the door.