The one without a name

Introduction

The truth about love

Love isn't special. Nothing about love is good. All it gets you is a satisfaction of knowing your good enough for someone. Or at least, that's what I've believed for the past 5 years.

When my father disappeared 5 years ago, a part of me disappeared with him. He used to be my best friend. He was there for me when no one else was.

Growing up, I never had too many friends. In fact, there was never one person I could call a best friend. So when my father was the only one to remember my birthday, to fool me on April 4th, and to take me to swimming, was when I learned there was no one else who could possibly fill his role of being my best friend.

Until he disappeared. The police never found his body. I wanted to believe he was alive. I didn't want to think he'd left me, left me with no one else but my rotten mother.

It was easier to think he'd died than left me, but he was supposed to be stronger than that. Love should have propelled him to come home, but he never did.

So when my mother moved in with a new guy two months later, I realized she never cared. She used to come home at 9, and went straight to bed. She never talked to me like dad did, never celebrated holidays like dad did, and never took me to work like dad did.

So when she was all I had, I crumbled. I had nothing left for me. But I was too young to connect the dots at 12.

Two months after dad disappeared, we moved 17 hours away to a cold state that bordered Canada. We moved in with a guy who reminded me of a pig. Disgusting, cute, and snotty.

I thought I could start over and make new friends. Until he decided that inflicting pain was much more fun than causing love.