Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
There was so much pain. There was so much wrong with what happened.
I let out a roar as I hammer my fist into the bag again. It whines on the hinges, the squeaking noise traveling through the empty gym. The buzzer screeches, telling me it’s time to stop, but I can’t as I launch into another attack.
I wish I could be the man Mom wants, who could easily find a woman, settle down, and be happy. Stop thinking. Stop this raging voice inside of me, this howling, never-ending anger.
Finally turning away, I pace across the room, beginning my cooldown.
It’s no good.
I can hit the bag all day. I can even spar, which I haven’t been doing as much since I’ve grown older. I could fight a man to the death, and it wouldn’t get rid of this feeling.
Nothing can. Nobody can.
I sigh as I do the stretches, keeping my body limber.
There’s no use letting myself sink into a self-pity hole, where all I do is wonder about how things could’ve been, wishing reality had been made different.
It’s not like I can magically snap my fingers and make myself care about a woman. It’s not like I can force myself to want somebody, how other men seem to want women, the attraction that comes naturally to them.
But do they feel that earth-shattering desire, that compulsion to possess their woman? Or is it something less, more subtle?
Maybe that’s my mistake. Maybe what I want doesn’t exist.
After the gym, I drive through the city, playing music softly on the stereo. I listen to Nordic music, with lots of heavy drums and deep voices but no lyrics, at least not in English. They speak to me in an ancient language, letting my mind clear itself.
The drive from the gym is usually the most peaceful I feel, without that tight ball of fury punching through me or the need to focus on work, so I don’t have to think about anything else.
As I drive, I wonder what it would feel like if I was returning home to a woman now. Suppose I had somebody to welcome me through the door, a smile on her face, with our children running down the hallway with even bigger grins on their faces.
But as I attempt to draw the image into focus, her face fades. The children turn to mist before they can reach me, the fantasy draining to nothing.
That’s always the problem when I try to imagine what a possible future might look like. I don’t know who I’ll be sharing it with.
I stop in my apartment’s private underground parking garage, taking a moment before I head upstairs.
It’s late, almost midnight. Now I’ll check my emails, grab some shuteye, and get up early to start work. It’s a simple, straightforward way to keep my business flourishing.
But Mom’s words are really eating at me. Somehow, life seems emptier than it did before. Perhaps it’s because, no matter how little I want to admit, I know there’s a chance Mom might not make it. I’ll be alone, except for my buddies and colleagues.
In terms of family, I’ll have nobody.
I grit my teeth, telling myself I don’t need anybody.
Pushing the car door open, I march toward the elevator. I’m done with this shit. I never spend time thinking about my feelings, pondering them, going over and over every little thing. I never let myself sink so easily into these pits of despair.
No more excuses, no more letting my mood carry me away.
I’m dreaming about a woman who doesn’t exist.
The lights automatically switch on as I stride across my apartment, illuminating the open space, the tall windows showing my reflection. I’m tall and wide, and I look like the sort of man who has it all figured out from the outside. It’d be damn good to feel that way too.
After pouring myself a drink, I go onto the balcony, sit down and let the cool night air blow softly against my skin.
My phone buzzes from the table.
It’s my personal phone. I switched off my work phone when I left the office.
I grab it quickly, wondering if it’s something about Mom. I don’t think her nurse, Sebastian, would text if there was a problem. He’d call. But I’m not going to take that chance.
The text is from a number I don’t recognize.
Hey X
I stare at it for a long time, searching my mind for who it could be. My last girlfriend was eight years ago, a quick one-month thing that fizzled out quickly. She said I was distant, emotionally detached, and didn’t seem to care.
All true, hence why I never date anymore.
Who else would send me this, with a kiss, out of the blue? At midnight?
A moment later, another text comes through.
I can see you’ve read my message. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing X