It was just past eight in the morning. When I came to terms with the fact Dave really hadn’t come home, I sat up in bed. I looked around my room which was painted an awful blue that he had picked when our house was being built.

Fuck his blue paint.

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and shuffled to my son’s room. Sound asleep. The soft zoos and sighs of his breathing keeping a steady rhythm. From the doorway I looked to my right and into my husband’soffice and noticed there was an open suitcase on the bed.

A few shirts

Some socks

Pants folded always just so

He was so neurotic

Pill bottles and books in the pockets

Empty bottle of bourbon on the floor

Glass half full on his desk

He was that kind of guy

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Tags: abuse, addiction, alcoholism, bourbon, domestic violence, literary agent, novel, poetry, publishing, travel, writers, writing