Stuck with a Punk ✔

No. 69.: Honest

"Ambe-ambe-ambe!" Devon refuses to give me a break. All the way home he's been yelling that excitedly, and while we were in the garage and riding in the elevator, his cultist chanting only got louder. 

His exclaims are the only things that I actually remember. The entire way home has been weird, unsettling. It's like the conscious part of my brain went to take a nap because I can barely remember which road home did I take. 

If I think about how this day began and how it's going to end, I can feel myself becoming depressed with every moment. In the morning, Annabelle was here, and we were fooling around, and I was basically torturing the hell out of her, and I thought the day could not be ruined. I was excited about seeing Deidre and dad, but once I was there only one thing occupied my mind. 

If Annabelle and I hadn't said a word about it, I would never question my dad. See, this is why I hate talking about what's happened to me, it brings about a whirl of feelings I would rather push aside and out of the door. I love my life. It could've definitely been better, but it could have oh so easily been worse. I have enough confidence myself, I'm completely independent, and I have a job I'm passionate about - sometimes for good and sometimes for bad reasons. In any case, I'm happy with myself. 

Except now. Now, I'm just... questioning everything that happened since dad left. Sure, I considered it before, Annabelle did not lead me to an unfamiliar territory, but I liked that dad was the hero of my memories. When I think about it now... He still is a hero for me. When he came over for visits, or we went to Chicago, I had the best of time there. But, you know... As Annabelle has said it, maybe he was too busy playing newly-weds with Deidre, which is why he didn't try to include us in his fresh marriage. Maybe we were an obstacle to his happiness, to a successful marriage. 

Sitting in the living room and contemplating about this sufficiently darkens my mood to the point that the morning I've spent with Annabelle feels like weeks ago. 

"Ambe-ambe-ambe!" Devon continues with it, jumping and swinging with his woody arms and clenched fists. He gets so loud with this that when he stops for half a minute or less, I hear a ringing sound in my ear. 

"What is it, Devon? Just what is it, so you'll stop..." I whine tiredly and can't even bring myself to avert my eyes towards him. 

He doesn't care but only goes on with what is apparently his favourite word: ambe. What the hell does it even mean? "Ambe! Ambe! Aaaaam-beeeee!" 

After the day I just had, I'm not sure I can take go on with this without being unaffected by it. Maybe he's just happy that he's home with me. After all, there is no better feeling than when you get back to your own lair and restore your energy, especially if you're a baby that's been in unfamiliar surroundings. He probably explored the entire hotel room better than Sherlock Holmes with his mind techniques, or Horatio Caine with his forensics. One time I switched the box of tissues for a cheaper brand, and a different box nearly drove Devon mad - he wanted to get to it and if it meant dying on the journey. 

Well, if I know one thing for sure, is that if you're not happy with yourself, it is upon you to fix that. I just keep coming back to Annabelle. I think about what I did an evening before, and in my mind, I see her on the stage. I think about shutting up Devon, and I recall how calm he is around her. I think about whatever happened with my parents, and I come back to the 3 a.m. thoughts I shared with her.

You could call her.

Nah. She's probably sick of me. She had to spend more than just an hour or two with me.

She could've left any time. You should call her.

I exhausted her anyway. She could be curled in her bed now and asleep since whenever she tried to fall asleep, I had to poke around with either my tongue or the other head.