FicWad

I felt her hands wrap around my skin like steam. Her essence was the inspiration for the bursting goose bumps falling down my arms. She kissed my shoulder and I was safe. Showers always calmed me this way. I saw her everywhere. Even as the water soaked my body, I imagined her there- with the shampoo and rising evaporation that hugged the mirror. Her absence took hostage of my insides, and there was no escaping. But the sick thing about it all, was that the hallucination of her kept me sane. I never wanted to see anything else.

I stayed in the shower until the water began to get cold. I opened my eyes and turned off the water, as I stepped out into the bathroom, where a thrill of chill air greeted my shivers. I looked into the fogged mirror, and saw a tired man who looked older than his age. I might as well be dead, with these lifeless eyes and paling complexion. I decided to actually shave, considering the forest of stubble sprouting across my face did not look entirely too attractive. Usually, I didn't care, but I had company over.

After brushing my teeth and putting on clothes, I headed to the kitchen, where I met Patrick making eggs and my little boy sitting at the breakfast bar, accompanied by a toy dinosaur he was playing with. He looked over at me and smiled.

"Daddy!" he exclaimed, as I walked over to him and kissed his head.

"Want some eggs, man?" Patrick asked me as I shook my head.

"Nah. Cereal is my usual breakfast." I said, retrieving a box of Count Chocula out of a cabinet and pouring it into a bowl, along with milk. I began spooning the cereal into my mouth, while Patrick just gave me a look. "What?"

"Is this what you feed your kid?" he asked, grabbing the box and scanning the nutrition labels.

"What? Sorry I can't be as perfectly healthy as you, Mr. Nutrition. Plus, Bronx loves the stuff. Right, Bronx?" I said.

"Yeah!" Bronx agreed, as we both exchanged high fives. "I want ceweal too!"

"I cooked these eggs for nothing?" Patrick complained.

"Eat the eggs, bud. You don't want to hurt Patrick's feelings." I said, while Patrick served him the eggs on a plate. Bronx didn't protest and began eating.

I couldn't help but smile at my son. How sweet of a boy he is, and how much he liked to take after me. Although, the last person he should look up to is me. The guy who can't keep his wife around, the man that is never happy, even though he has everything. Life fell straight through my fingers like water; instantly and slippery. Suddenly, a wave of depression washed over me and I was back to that place where I wanted to lock myself up in my room with Ashlee's note and the liquor of my choice. Maybe Patrick was right. I did need some time to straighten things out.

"Hey, buddy. How does a night or two at uncle Patrick's sound?" I asked him, as his eyes lit up.

"Can I, Patwick?" he asked, looking over to a smiling Patrick, with an evident lisp.

"Sure, pal. We can leave right after breakfast." Patrick answered, as Bronx let out an excited "Yay!"

"Bronx, go wash up and I'll pack your things." I told him as he jumped out of the chair and ran out of the kitchen.

"You gonna be okay here by yourself, Pete?" Patrick asked with concern. I looked up at him and examined everything he was. He was looking great these days, he was doing great these days. His solo career had skyrocketed and he had recently proposed to his girlfriend. Everything was going for him, yet he still wasted his time checking up on his poor excuse for a human being best friend.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I'm gonna go to the grocery store later or something. We're in need of food, bad. Ashlee used to do it, but..." I trailed off. There were dead ends to every sentence about her. Patrick looked at me with sympathetic eyes.

"Has she called or anything?" his voice dropped to a whisper, as though this mess was a huge secret. But it definitely wasn't a secret at all. Somehow the public had discovered Ashlee's departure. A photographer had seen her living in some condo in Manhattan, alone. Nobody knew what had actually happened or why she left. Rumors were spit all over the gossip columns, but there was no definite truth to any of them. The made-up stories about why she left were far more interesting than what really happened. It wasn't drugs or abuse or any of that. It was simple; the husband was emotionally absent, while the wife decided to become physically absent.

"No. No phone calls, no emails, nothing. She's gone." I whispered softly. Every piece of her disappeared. Her clothes were gone, yet her scent still lingered. Her face hung in picture frames and in my conscious, yet I couldn't find her anywhere.

"It's like she never was even really here."