/lit/ - Literature

>Mommy gf edition. Last one hit bump limit

Towards the end the air around him grew strange, like looking at him though a glass obscured. He'd go out late at night, only coming back in the early hours of the morning. I never knew where he went. Sometimes he would bring me coffee when I got up.
He was always a peculiar child. When his father and I ran the kennel he would somehow always know when I was bottle feeding a puppy, and would begin to cry out from the next room, jealous of my maternal attentions. He did not speak till he was nearly three, although after that he developed normally. Academically speaking at least.
When he was 12 I split up with his father, and we downsized to a one bedroom in Elmont while his father moved to Florida. It was disgustingly close quarters. 600 square ft, one bathroom, loud neighbors. For privacies sake I gave him the bedroom, and slept on a pullout sofa in the Livingroom. Raising a son as a single mother gives you more knowledge about his habits then you should have.
He never had any friends. He was naturally morose, and the first time he told me he wanted to die he was only seven. I sought treatment for him of course, but looking back I wonder if I didn't do enough.
I was rarely home. I worked from 8 to 4, and starting when he entered high school I got another job from 5 to 9. When I came home I'd find him listing to the neighbors lay into each other, writing down their mutual abuses and annotating it with the sound of broken glass.
"I want to understand what it's like to feel strongly about someone. I don't think I'll ever feel something as memorable as what they feel towards each other."
I had to excuse myself and go into the bathroom to cry.

>Pt. 1