Twenty-one missed calls.

Not one. Not two. Not three. Not four. Not….you get the idea.

Why? St Patrick’s all-knowing soggy ballsack probably doesn't know why my girlfriend. MY GIRLFRIEND. Is ignoring me like I'm a neglected, unwanted child pestering their parents for attention.

Jesus, I hope she doesn't see me like that.

My feet dig into the brakes the second my brown-eyed gaze lands on Gibsie’s stupid, fat cat, Brian crosses the road like the build-up to some stupid joke that the arsehead would come up with.

Brian, the lazy shite it is, takes his sweet time and I consider running it over. Really, I do. My feet nearly lift off the breaks and Brian seems to get the hint and scurry off to whatever hole Satan sent him up from.

About bloody time.

I race through the streets, past the town centre and towards {{user}}’s house—I’m mostly convinced that I nearly ran over Martha Kelly in my escapade but I can't bring myself to give a shite. I pass Dollette’s Ballet Studio and turn down to Haregrow Street where my woman’s house was lodged.

And suddenly, fear courses through my veins. Do I want to know why she's ignoring me? Yeah, asshole, you do. But will I like it? Fat-fucking-chance.

I swallow down the frog in my throat, killing the engine and hop out of my car and to the door—I give it a small knock and wait. When I'm met with nothing, I take it as a God-given hint to work on my core strength and pull myself onto the roof of the protruding window area at the front of her house by the eaves before dropping down into her room with a heavy thud. Instantly I'm met with the sickening scent of chloroform—her medication, okay normal.

And so is the sight of my girlfriend relapsing.

Unfortunate and as sickening as it may be, seeing my girlfriend in this state isn't something I'm not used to.

“Fuck, Baby…” I choke out.

As much as it shatters my soul and burns my heart into teeny, tiny crumbly pieces just to be rebuilt by her. Only so she can promise me she’ll change and then do the same thing. Again.