Why aren't my parents home yet?

An overwhelming restlessness approaches, my eyes flicker, darting to and from every corner of the room. Something about the clock on the wall irritates me. This is strange, they’re not usually out this long and absence in this house should not be taken lightly. When alone I don’t migrate from the open and barren living room unless necessary for survival. Why? Quite simple really: ghosts. They lurk around the house, infesting mundane objects and trying to control my brain. That being said, I’ve learnt a trick or two such as closing my eyes and walking quite hastily to ensure survival. My skills as an exorcist are quite mind boggling really, only to be topped by my occupation as a detective.

From an analytical perspective I deduce mother and father, of this house of course as these terms are quite relative, to be acquiring groceries at the super market or to be at war with the Carthaginians. These two options are as simple as black and white, day and night. To be or not to be, my life is full of such dichotomy. Ultimately there can only be one answer. For example, war with the Carthaginians in this scenario is ridiculous. To even think of the modern supermarket with aisles and refrigerated food, would mean the noble roman battles and conquest against the tyranny of Carthage would have long past. There is a reason for this train of thought however. If it was not stated prior, I embody the spirit of the Roman Dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix. History has not been kind to him, but don’t worry my king Sulla, I too would have turned my back on the conniving and pathetic Roman senate for the good of my people. A conclusion has finally been drawn then, I await the parents in hopes of a reward. To gaze upon freshly cracked eggs on a charred pan, the yolk bursting as if magma within a miniature crater.

The clock continues to tick, how frustrating. He won’t let me sit in peace for a single second. If it was within my power not only would I stop that arrogant ignoramus but I would quite literally turn back time. As a matter of fact, perhaps I should mess with his clockwork to fight his malice-induced entropy. How naughty of me that would be, but my profound psychological empire of knowledge calls me an idiot, telling me that’s now how it works. I’ll deal with that bastard clock later, I have new foes in sight.

As always, a choice awaits me. It’s been close to a millennia since I have left the house (or perhaps a few days but either makes sense to me) and a suspicious suitcase and an innocent black notebook have decided to take refuge in this land. As harmless as they appeared, I feel an aura of mystery and intrigue. High speed chases and hand to hand combat. Theme music, casinos and mob bosses. I imagine damsels in striking red bikini’s or emulating a mature swagger by ordering a “Shaken, not stirred” vodka martini. A spy, but not just any spy, a super spy. The cartel must have dropped off this suitcase and secret message for me. There was something very familial about them, must be a gang formality. As to why, don’t worry, I’m a super spy I’ll handle it. But an unbearable pressure has me fixated on choosing one or the other. Computer code, 0 or a 1. Positive or negative. Destiny is a single road. I choose the briefcase of course, the unknown of its contents is eating away at me. The notebook could only contain words, finite pages and half-hearted endings.

By my decree as a Superspy, landlord, time battler, spiritual successor of Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix of Rome, detective and exorcist, I would open the suitcase. It was beautiful, I had never seen something so perfect. Green, glowing hundred dollar bills. So many of them: pristine, crisp and pure. I can do plenty with this money. I could purchase an abundance of eggs for myself so I could watch them pop and crackle in the pan. Only for them to be later thrown in the bin for new eggs to explode in their place. Of course I wasn’t going to eat them because that would be disgusting. On the other hand, I could buy a really big hammer and smash that scoundrel clock once and for all, freeing myself from the prism of time. That would be nice. The money amounted to nineteen thousand, nine hundred dollars. At first I thought it was a peculiar number, and then I remembered a certain hundred dollar bill I named Larry. He looked extremely distressed as if he needed a hug. My moral conscience decided to put Larry in my pocket. Larry has no need to worry now, he’s safe with me. The choice was made, I won. Twenty thousand dollars within hands reach, but this victory was not sweet. It never is.

Bitterness, void.

Each morning I awake to a different caricature of myself, no longer the boy I once was. My skin cracking, voice raspy. If I could, I would bribe my way to the door of happiness’ shrine. A place where we could all still be together. But I know it can never suffice. It’s been years and I still haven’t opened the notebook. I can’t open it. I anticipate each and every day for time to twist its path back to normalcy. To the days where I would play pretend, walk in circles and imagine a fantastical life. Days when the kitchen and living room were bustling, when you two would argue and I’d be scolded for the most trivial of things. I don’t know how to forgive myself. I couldn’t have appreciated it even if I wanted to because life has changed. Whether my heart is tainted by a mournful nostalgia or my mind possessed by sudden clarity, I wish you weren’t gone.

Why aren’t my parents home yet?