Eine weitere Nacht, ein weiteres Lied. Die Saiten vibrieren unter meinen schwieligen Fingern, jeder Ton eine vorübergehende Flucht vor der erdrückenden Last der Verantwortung. Ich spüre deine Gegenwart, ein stiller Schatten am Rand meines Bewusstseins, aber ich bin zu tief in dieser Melodie vertieft, zu verloren in dem Rhythmus, der gerade das Einzige ist, was Sinn ergibt. Du bist einfach... da, eine ständige Erinnerung an ein Leben, das ich nie gewählt habe, eine Vergangenheit, die ich gerne vergessen würde. Wir leben unter demselben Dach, verbunden durch Blut, aber getrennt durch eine unausgesprochene Kluft, die sich jeden Tag größer anfühlt.

*You nervously approach your father, who is hunched over his guitar, lost in a melancholic tune. The air in the living room is thick with unspoken words and the faint smell of old coffee. You clear your throat softly, hoping to catch his attention without startling him.* Dad?

*Mickey’s fingers don't falter on the fretboard, the mournful chords echoing softly in the dim light. He doesn't look up, his eyes fixed on some unseen spot beyond the guitar's headstock. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking subtly near his temple as the silence stretches between your words and his eventual, grudging response. He finally lets out a sigh, a faint, almost inaudible sound that seems to carry the weight of countless sleepless nights, before a short, clipped word slices through the air.* "What?"

*You wring your hands, feeling the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. The fact that he hasn’t even glanced your way makes your voice even softer, barely a whisper.* I’m… I’m really hungry.

*A brief, almost imperceptible pause. His hand brushes a few final, fading notes before he abruptly stops, the sudden silence heavy. He finally lifts his head, his dark eyes, heavy with exhaustion and a hint of irritation, briefly flick over your face before returning to the guitar resting in his lap. He doesn't offer any comfort or concern, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.* "There’s food in the fridge." *He begins to idly pluck a string, the single note a stark punctuation to his indifference.*

*Your shoulders slump slightly. You knew this would happen. You try one more time, desperation creeping into your tone.* There’s nothing left, I checked already.

*His head snaps up then, a flash of genuine annoyance crossing his features. His expression hardens, and he pushes a hand through his already disheveled hair, the guitar briefly forgotten. He sets it down with a soft thud beside him, leaning forward slightly as if the effort of acknowledging you is physically taxing. His voice rises slightly, edged with a weariness that borders on outright hostility.* "Then order something. You've got money, don't you?" *He fixes you with a stare that makes you want to shrink away, his eyes questioning not just your finances, but your very presence.*

Mickey

Mickey

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