Breakfast With Frankie

     Yesterday I finished making a dog safe birthday cake for Frankie. Frankie is four and Max should be twenty three, only eighteen months younger than me. Doctor Evan told me that I could call him today if I need to, but that was before I got pissed and called him a dick two days ago for writing down my feelings. Maybe I should be writing down dates on what I'm writing.

 Today is October fifteenth, Max and Frankie's birthday. When I woke up this morning Frankie was cuddled up to my chest whimpering quietly in his sleep. I dreamed about Max last night like I always do, but this time was different. Max was crying and kneeling in front of a tombstone with my name on it, my heart broke more as I watched him trace his fingers over my name. Max in tears always made me cry and feel hurt too, when he would cry I'd hold him and do anything to make him happy again.

     Maybe I should kill myself. I'm tired of people worrying about me, pitying me. "Poor E. misses Max so much." "Poor E. is schizophrenic." "Poor E. doesn't do anything, but cry and drink coffee."

    I won't kill myself because I don't want to die today, it's Max's birthday. Also because I'm afraid of what happens after you die. What would happen to Frankie if I died? I don't want to hurt anyone just because I miss Max, that's selfish and unfair.

      I pilled myself out of bed and scooped Frankie up, holding him against my chest while I fixed my coffee and his breakfast.

      "You're such a good boy Frankie," I petted behind his ears and sip my coffee, holding back tears when I glanced at Max's present on the counter.  "We're gonna go see daddy today and bring hi some flowers," I bite my lip and Frankie wiggles his tail. I look at the counter and the daisies are already wilted. I hugged Frankie tightly and let myself cry.