Tommy…
Tommy stood up from the edge of the bed where he now sat—running his fingers through his unkempt hair and over the raw feel of his unshaven jaw before staring at the computer. He had a court case to go to today—had a full schedule ahead of him including a few family get togethers. He was not looking forward to the one he had at the end of the month. The entire Castova family would be getting together in one lethal band. It would be like facing the guillotine during the French Revolution. Actually, he'd rather have his head cut off. He logged on to the computer before pulling a shirt quickly over his head down over the tight ridges of his stomach before signing on. There was a message waiting and he clicked on it—reading it slowly before staring up at the wall of his current room. Wow! It was like reading someone's soul if that were possible. She had bared it all—had revealed enough to let him know that she was philosophical and determined. Her mature view of the world astounded him—even humbled him. He typed cautiously.
Second guessing yourself is something we all do—some of us more than others. I find myself doing that more and more lately. You'd hate me in real life. I'm the guy that walked away—the one that probably hurt the girl I left as deeply as the man who left you hurt your heart. The damage is done. I can't repair it now. Or at least I don't feel like I can. That thought pains me.
Tommy paused for a moment as if unsure he wanted to go on.
My sister died. Strange how death affects lives—the grim reaper that comes and swiftly denotes whose time it is to go—leaving everyone else wondering what the hell happened. How are we supposed to pick up those pieces and put them back together again? How are we supposed to know where the puzzle pieces go? I find the feeling cold. The first few days I was home, I looked for women and alcohol—losing myself in both of their warmths only because death is so cold and I hate the cold. Do you see the world through troubled eyes? It seems you do. On that lighter note of yours, I am sitting here picturing myself outside somewhere racing my motorcycle through the streets or working on my car while listening to the classics. Nothing de-stresses me more. To the puppet from the master.
--Puppetmaster
Tommy logged off before pushing away from the desk—heading toward his shower while imagining what the girl from the computer was up to right now—wondering if she was as fascinated by him as he was by her. If only he knew that she was wondering the same thing right at that very moment.