So here's the deal. I started writing this story three years ago now, and I never finished it. But, in the past week I've been trying to get my act together and finish the darn thing once and for all.
To put my feet to the fire, I decided I'm going to start posting some Chapters on here, and "self publish" if you will. Maybe, if it ends up being good enough, I will try to made an e-book out of it or something, but the experience of attempting to write the story is enough victory for a man's soul.
A fun fact, or a funny one, depends on who you ask. The main character's name is Robbie. I did not intentionally recycle the name in my recent story about a loving dog, but turns out that it happened.
Anyways, I'm still not sure what to name the story, but I do have names for the chapters so at least I got that.
Hope you guys like it.
The front door creaked as Robbie shoved it open, his boots scuffing the chipped linoleum. The living room stared back at him—empty. No couch, no TV, just a tangle of dust bunnies rolling across the floor like tiny tumbleweeds. His jaw tightened as he stepped deeper into the silence. The bedroom was worse: bare mattress, drawers yanked open, hangers rattling in the closet like skeletons. Even his MacBook—his one lifeline to the world—was gone. He patted the desk where it usually sat, fingers brushing nothing but a stale coffee ring.
He stood there, chest heaving, the quiet buzzing in his ears like a swarm of flies. Then it hit him: Justine. She’d done this. Ten years, and she’d gutted the place like a fish, leaving him the bones. His hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms until they stung. That MacBook—she’d probably pawn it by sundown, cash it out like she’d cashed out on him.
He fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it as he scrolled to Jojo’s number. “Pick up, you bastard,” he muttered, pacing the empty room. When Jojo’s lazy drawl finally crackled through, Robbie didn’t wait for a hello. “She took my Mac, man. Justine. I need you to trace it—now. I’m not letting her screw me like this.”
Jojo yawned. “You sure it’s not just lost under a pile of your junk?”
“It’s gone, asshole! She cleaned me out!” Robbie’s voice cracked, and he kicked the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster.
Two days later, he stood in Christo’s pawn shop, the air thick with the smell of old leather and cigarette smoke. There it was—his MacBook—sitting on a shelf behind the counter, its silver lid scratched but unmistakable. Robbie’s pulse thudded in his temples as he glared at Christo, the burly guy with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.
“Found it this morning,” Christo rumbled, scratching his beard. He slid an envelope across the counter, stuffed with crumpled twenties, and nudged a beat-up Dell laptop beside it. “She traded it in. Said you’d come looking. Left this too.” He tapped a folded letter, Justine’s loopy handwriting scrawled across the front: Robbie.
Robbie’s throat tightened. He snatched the letter, tearing it open. Her words blurred as his eyes burned: I’m done carrying you. Take the cash, take the Dell, take a hint. Don’t follow me. He crumpled the paper, letting it drop to the floor. She’d planned this—played him like a damn fiddle. His gaze flicked to the shelf, where his old acoustic guitar still hung, strings rusted, unsold. Another dud, just like him.
Christo cleared his throat. “Hey, man, you okay? Look, maybe this is a chance to—”
Robbie’s sob cut him off, a raw, ugly sound that echoed off the glass cases. He swiped at his face, snot streaking his sleeve, and Christo shifted awkwardly, like he’d stepped in something sticky.
“Robbie, listen, maybe we figure out what’s next, huh? You and me—”
“Shut up!” Robbie roared, his voice flipping from grief to rage like a switch. He stumbled back, his boot slamming into a speaker by the door. It toppled with a thud, wires spilling out like guts. He didn’t look back as he stormed into the street, the cold biting his wet cheeks.
Robbie hunched over the pawn shop’s cheap Dell, the screen’s flicker stinging his eyes as he punched in his mom’s number. His thumb hovered over the call button, the first time in five years he’d even tried. The line crackled, then her voice—soft, shaky—spilled through. “Hello?”
“Mom, it’s me.” His throat felt like sandpaper.
A sob burst from the other end, loud enough to make him wince. He could picture her, clutching the phone with those thin, veiny hands, tears streaking her powdered cheeks.
“Robbie? Oh, Lord, Robbie…”
“I’m broke, Mom. Five hundred bucks, that’s it.” He kicked at a pile of clothes on the floor, the envelope of Justine’s cash crumpled in his pocket. “Rent’s due in two weeks. Can’t pay it. Haven’t worked in… a while.”
Her voice steadied, warm like broth. “Come home, honey. City’s no good for you. I’ve got a bed here, food on the table. Always will.”
He chewed his lip, the taste of guilt sour on his tongue. Five years since Dad’s funeral, and he hadn’t even sent a text. All those nights he’d cursed her in his head—why’d she stay with that bastard, letting him scream and shove her around? His fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened.
Half an hour later, he stuffed a duffel with shirts, the laptop, and Justine’s crumpled letter. The SIM card from his phone pinged against the trash can as he tossed it. No one needed to know where he was going. Not Jojo, not Christo—nobody.
The bus rattled into Jerune just after dusk, the skyline a ghost of what he remembered. The old gas station squatted by the road, its neon sign buzzing faintly, but the streets were hollow. No kids on bikes, no porch lights flickering. Just a wind that smelled like rust and wet dirt.
He trudged past Jake’s old place, the sagging porch still there. A pickup rusted in the driveway—Jake’s dad, probably. Jake was long gone, sipping martinis in California, too good for this dump now.
The house loomed ahead, same peeling paint, same crooked mailbox. Inside, time had frozen: yellowed wallpaper, the faint whiff of mothballs. Crosses everywhere—on the walls, the mantle, even a tiny one dangling from the lamp. Mom’s church phase wasn’t a phase anymore.
The door banged open behind him, and Janine barreled in, apron dusted with flour. She froze, then crumpled into sobs, arms flinging around him. “My boy,” she choked, her grip tight despite his sour sweat and unwashed hair. He stood stiff, hands at his sides, her warmth prickling his skin.
She bustled to the kitchen, pots clanging, and soon the smell of meatloaf—his old favorite—wafted out. He poked at it later, the gravy congealing on the plate. “Mom, this is temporary, okay? I’m getting back on my feet. I’ll be out soon.” His voice sounded hollow, even to him. The guitar gigs, the late-night bar crowds—gone. Word got around: Robbie’s a flake.
Janine just smiled, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Come see your room.”
Upstairs, it hit him like a punch: same creaky bed, same Metallica poster curling at the edges. He dropped his bag, the springs groaning under him as he sat. Joy flickered—then fizzled. Back here. A nobody in a town of nobodies.
A soft knock jolted him. Janine’s head poked in, her hair pinned back, eyes bright. “Church is at nine, Robbie. I’ll wake you at eight, give you time to clean up.” She hesitated, then added, “It’d mean a lot.”
He flopped back on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. Church? Bullshit idea. But her voice lingered, that hopeful lilt he’d ignored for years. Maybe he owed her this much.
to be continued....
I got about 11 chapters written at the moment, but I'm thinking it would take quite a few more to finish the story. And yes, I do have an ending in mind. I wrote this, or should I say, I'm writing this because I have an ending.
That being said, It would be amazing for people to guess where this is going too. So feel free to do so if you please.
If you read this whole thing, you rock...
MenO
