Because Of Joan

Chapter 6.

I find it unusual that, given my heart disposition, I have not faced insomnia earlier. It is now, however, after having my questions about Umlaut resolved, that I find myself laying in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to close my eyes and sleep. Somehow I find myself thinking of Peter Fills, and how he left Adaline because he was upset about the prospect of being a father. That idea has always illuded me: that parents can run away from parenthood, when it is a biological thing. Even if I were to perish tomorrow, Adaline would still be a mother, despite the fact that I am her only child. No factors can turn a parent to a non-parent, not even if they run away from their adolescent girlfriend and unborn son. Note to self: the protective instinct linking parent and offspring does not seem to be a biological necessity for Homo sapiens.

    Not even jazz can soothe my frayed nerves at this point, so I sit up from my bed and resign from the unyielding dip of the mattress. It is a cheap mattress, hardly worthy of being referred to as a mattress. I am constantly being freighted back and forth between this house and the hospital, because whilst I am at home I recieve proper food but improper back support, and at the hospital I receive proper back support and improper food.

    I am quite nearly blinded by the computer screen as I turn it on, suddenly determined to see it again, though I swore I wouldn't let it grab a hold of me. When I was seven, it came to my attention that Adaline would tell me no more about Peter Fills than what I'd already managed to gather from a glance at my birth certificate, simple arithmetic, and reasoning. She seemed to make several attempts at telling me, but always ended up having a full bladder when she found the time, for she always ended up excusing herself to go to the bathroom. Eventually, I deduced that her frequent bathroom visits would do nothing to further my knowledge, and thus my research began. With enough resolve, it's simple enough to locate anyone, which is why at the age of eight, I located the man responsible for my existence.

Perhaps it would've been more challenging for me if Peter hadn't idiotically left such a distinct mark of his existence. I was and am ashamed of my existence to this day that I came from an advertisement more than a man. He won several awards in academics, made a noticeable impression in photos, had once maintained a blog about himself (which I found still running after eight years), and had a wikipedia page. Therefore, after a mere week or so of sifting through Adaline's High School memorabilia while she was out working the night shift, I located him working as a High School History Teacher at a school in Absarokee, Montana.

When my eyes adjust to the computer screen, I allow my muscle memory to kick in. I drag my mouse to the "favorites" (which I think is incorrectly named) and find the file categorized as "Peter Fills".

Since the unearthing of his location at age eight, I've located further evidence of his existence throughout the years: student blogs with mentionings of him, a web page commemorating his years of employment and football coaching. In every source he's found in he's listed as caring, funny, social, down to earth, always up for a nice chat, accepting, and laid back. I find it amusing that he has never been listed as someone who abandons his unborn child and pregnant girlfriend.

"Whatcha looking at?" In a normal situation, confronted with interruption, I would shoot a glare at Maria and make it clear that I don't want to be bothered. But this isn't a normal situation. As soon as I realize that Maria is unrelated to the voice that has reached me, I find that my whole body becomes numb. I behold the figure in all its glory, a shadow, barely outlined by a lone streetlight behind, hunched in the crawl space between the window sill, and the opened window. I turn in surprise, and the light from my laptop bathes the figure in light. I'd never wondered what coffee would look like in the dark. Naturally, however, one would infer that it, absorbing the darkness around it, would be black. But illuminated in computer light, Joan's coffee eyes glow red like amber. I feel relieved seeing her, instead of some serial killer, until she swings her head around and fixates her red eyes on my screen. It's at this point that I choose the serial killer.