portion of the artwork for Bobby Parker's story

Bobby Parker

No one has called me or come to visit in about a week. Got it into my head that I haven’t got any friends left, or at least they don’t want to spend as much time with me. I can be really hard on myself.

Yesterday I saw Laura and she said, “Hey, how was camping on the farm? It is a beautiful farm, isn’t it?”

Her face sank when she saw the look on my face.

“No, I don’t know anything about that,” I said. “They must’ve forgotten to call me or something.”

* * *

Today was rough.

I deactivated my Facebook account because it was depressing me to read about the apparently swell lives people were living, while I sit in a lonely flat listening to music and looking out of the window.

After an hour or so staring out the window with tears running down my right cheek, I decided to go to bed. The cat was on the bed and she makes me feel good, she makes me feel wanted and needed. I read a few short stories and fell asleep. It was only about one o’clock in the afternoon.

Dreamt my cousin was offering me cocaine, he only had a little bit and in my dream I thought to myself, I’m gonna need a lot more coke than that to make me feel any better.

* * *

The ringing phone woke me up. I tried to ignore it, turned my pillow over because it was wet with drool, and squeezed my eyes shut. It kept ringing. Maybe someone is calling to ask if I’m all right or maybe to ask if I want to do something.

Got up, answered the phone. It was my wife.

“I was just ringing to see if you were OK?”

“I thought … I thought someone was ringing me to see if I wanted to do something today, I …” My sobs stopped me from speaking so I hung up the phone and ran and jumped back into bed.

The tears became howls; I mean real howling pain for about five minutes. I’m so pathetic. What if the neighbours hear me howling and bawling like this? I thought to myself. The cat was gone.

The phone rang again but I wasn’t going to get fooled another time. I sat up and spat onto the carpet, the kind of spit that’s more like snot because of the weeping and the howling.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 30 | Fall 2010