a place we know| ✓

forty six

"And find a place where every single thing you see tells you to stay."
S E E K E R
.
.
January 29th
6:00 PM
New York
- - - - - - - - - -

The city was a canvas of colors and a cacophony of sounds.

Gunner stood out amongst the lights and buzz of New York city. Its roads were veins and people its life source, its blood. It was built on differences and similarities, and it was one, organic entity separate from all else.

He picked his eyes off the phone screen and raised them to the window, staring at himself, looking at his failures as they breathed and blossomed in the depths of his chest.

His hands trembled and he felt a soft panic that slowly flourished in the base of his stomach, numbing his fingers as his thumb hovered over the call button. Gunner reread the number more times than he could count, unsure if whomever answered would be the person he sought out. His brain was searching for an alternative option, dissuading him from pursuing false faith.

Gunner's lungs wouldn't expand far enough to gather the oxygen he needed. The bedroom walls moved in, trapping him together with his anxiety and guilt. His eyes were watery, mouth open in a mute sob that put pressure on his skull and drained him of his strength.

What am I supposed to do? What the fuck is left for me?

His insides grew warm in an unpleasant way and before he had the opportunity to change his mind, hit the call button and brought the phone to his ears.

Please pick up. Please. Please. Please.

There was a click, a brief moment of silence, then a dazed, tentative reply. "Hello?"

It had been nine years since he heard that voice. It wasn't the deep, smooth melody Gunner heard as a child. Age touched him, and he couldn't even begin to wonder what else changed in his absence. Perhaps grey hair and faint creases on his fair skin. It was strange listening to him after all this time. But the consolation was what he yearned for most, causing his heart to sink and rise sequentially.

Although he promised himself not to shed a tear for the man who had broken every single vow he made, he unleashed a river of sadness.

"D-Dad, is that you?"

The only sign of life was his calm breathing. "It's me, Gunner."

"I fucked up," from his lips came a cry so raw that took his emotional pain to new heights. "I fucked everything up."

Gunner couldn't be sure his father was still listening, but he cried to him like the young boy he used to be. He remembered the arms that would embrace him when he fell outside and scraped his knee, when the bullies pushed him around at school, or when he was full to the brim with pent up frustration and knew only one man could put an end to his afflictions. That was who Gunner called a father, who he had taken for granted when drugs and alcohol robbed him of his innocent youth and burned the bridge between them.

How weak he was for crawling back to the father who had tossed him aside as if he meant nothing. His own flesh and blood. His own son.

And all Gunner wanted was to be a son deserving of love, of purpose.

"You fucked up a long time ago, Gunner," he said. "What did I used to tell you?"

"I know–"

"I warned you, Gun. You thought I was making all this shit up, but now you see it for yourself. I told you to quit the smoking and drinking, that it would get worse. It's gotten worse, hasn't it?"