You Never Call, You Never Write...
You Never Call, You Never Write...
David unfolded the letter gingerly, trying not to touch it any more than he had to. God, why couldn't she just leave him alone? But no....
My Dear Son,
How are you? I never see you anymore. Are you getting my letters? I never hear from you, and nobody tells me anything here.....
Blah, blah, blah. Fucking old bat. Why couldn't she just die already?
I'm hungry a lot here. I don't think they bring meals as often as they should, but you know how forgetful I am...maybe I just eat and then forget I ate.
"Forgetful? Fucking senile, more like it." But then, she'd never been a great mother-- with her string of ever-changing boyfriends, going out drinking and God knew what else, leaving David locked in the house....
And there was never enough to eat--bags of chips, maybe, or a fucking Happy Meal, when she remembered in her alcohol-addled brain that she had a child to feed. But now she was the one locked up, having to wait for someone who might or might not remember to bring her a meal, or clean up after her. Too senile to realize she was in her own bedroom, instead of the senior home.
Too senile to realize she was being slowly starved to death....
For Christ's sake. David refolded the letter and stuffed it back into its envelope, re-sealing it carefully. He took out a pen, and wrote "ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN--RETURN TO SENDER" on it, and shoved it back under his mother's locked bedroom door.