Beautiful Boy

rope

amara haven

Another month had passed and there was no real news about the situation.

Lillian and Rick were still in the hospital, and the lawyers were still forming a case.

I had continued with University, and Elena had dropped off the kitten she wanted me to foster about a week after the party.

He was almost two months old, a little black kitten named Michael.

I sat with a textbook, and papers surrounding me while Michael slept on the pullout.

I hadn't told Nic about him, so when he came home and saw a kitten on his bed, he had questions.

But he softened the minute that Michael fell asleep on him, and they immediately became friends.

Michael adored him, whenever Nic left the room, he'd sit and meow until he came back.

It was quite sweet. It was as though seeing someone you already liked being good with animals could make you fall harder.

"I come bearing mail," Nic announced as he entered the room.

"Shh!" I said, trying to focus on a paragraph about history... or poems... or historic poems... I wasn't sure.

"Okay, don't bother Amara, got it," he muttered to himself, placing the mail on the desk and sitting down on the pullout.

He grabbed Michael into his hands and kissed the little kitten on the head, placing him on his chest.

Michael woke up, and when he noticed it was Nic, he started meowing.

I huffed, pushing the textbook, I didn't anticipate how close the edge of the bed was and it fell, landing shut on the ground.

It startled Nic and Michael.

"You okay?" Nic asked.

"This stupid thing doesn't make sense," I replied, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"What is it? Maybe I can help," he offered.

"No, I'm done for right now," I said, gathering the papers into a pile.

He chuckled, "Fair."

"So what's the mail?" I asked, picking up the textbook and placing it on the desk.

"A letter addressed to you," he replied, "It's from San Francisco, and my Dad said it was found in your house by an investigator. Along with two others for Kinsley and Valeria."

I observed the way my name was written on the envelope, and my heart dropped.

"This is my Dad's writing," I muttered.

"Really?" He questioned.

"Mhm," I nodded, "He always used to add this little heart at the end of my name."

I showed him the way that the tail of the third A in my name looped into a heart.

"Interesting. Open it," he encouraged.

I sat back down on the bed and slid my finger behind the envelope.

Inside was a piece of paper covered in words.

Words written by Dad.

I took a deep breath and began reading.

By the end of the page, I was crying.

I only noticed I was crying because one of my tears fell and hit the page, leaving a little dot.

"Amara, are you okay? What does it say?" Nic asked, I looked over at him, Michael was playing with his hand.

"It's a letter. He wrote it before he died."

The rope that was so securely holding me up again snapped.

The weight of the events unfolding became too much for the rope and it gave up.

Making me want to give up too.

There was no point in trying to repair the rope. Once a rope broke, it was broken for good.

You can't patch up a rope with bandaids. No one tells you that.

"I'm going to go for a walk," I lied.

"No, you're staying with me," Nic said.

"I need fresh air," I muttered.

"Then I'll come with you," he insisted.

"I'm not five, Nic, I don't need your supervision," I defended, "Don't you trust me?"

In truth, I was consumed by a craving to slip away with a bottle of alcohol.

It was an all-consuming craving.

The worst craving I'd ever had.

"I can't let you leave, Mara, you're upset," he stood up to block the door.

"Let me go," I said sternly.

He looked into my eyes as if searching for a sign of hope.

"There's a meeting in ten minutes if you let me take you-"

"No," I laughed through the pain, my eyes a bit blurry from the tears.

"Please?" He asked.

I shook my head, "I'll be five minutes, I need air."

"That's fine, I'll come wit-"

"Alone, Nic. I need to be alone," I said.

"You know I can't leave you alone," he countered.

"Do you not trust me?" I asked.

"No, of course I trust you, it's your addiction I don't trust," he replied.

I huffed. Impatient as a child too young to understand patience.

"Let's go for a drive, talk a bit, you can get through this without alcohol," he suggested.

I could've slapped him.

"Shut up," I said, "You don't understand, Nic. I know that you're an addict too, okay, I know that. But you have never lost the person you're closest to."

"Bold of you to assume," he accused.

I hesitated for a moment, before regaining my footing as I realised what he meant.

"Get out of my way," I said. "You chose to pretend I didn't exist. That is on you. I didn't want my Dad to die. Ever. But he did. Just man the fuck up and be grateful that I'm here with you, got it?"

He stayed quiet.

"I won't tell you again," I seethed.

He moved out of the doorway.

And I left.