The Absence Of Me
A journey into the anatomy of devastation. As one man fights against systemic failings and the crushing weight of lies, he confronts the ghost in the mirror, asking, "Who even am I anymore?". The narrative explores the raw landscapes of profound loss, deep psychological pain, and the kind of emotional devastation that can leave indelible marks.
Touching upon themes of mental anguish, alienation, and suicidal ideation with unflinching honesty, this is a story born from the echoing silences where unspoken truths reside. Dedicated to those who dare to listen when silence screams the loudest. Tread gently, and be kind to yourself as you read.
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“This book is dedicated to those who dare to listen, to give a piece of themselves away to those who need it”
Chapter 1
The Empty Swing
The swing in the garden creaks. Back and forth. Empty. Like the space he left. Flynn. My boy. Sometimes I think if I stare hard enough, I’ll see him there, legs pumping, laughing that laugh that used to fill this whole bloody house. But it’s just the wind. And the quiet. The quiet she left behind. The quiet she fills him with, over there, across town, poisoning every memory of me. You want to know how a man becomes a ghost in his own life? It starts like this. With an empty swing. And a silence that screams.
The kettle clicks off. Steam ghosts up against the kitchen window, blurring the grey smear of Seacrest Bay outside. Another Saturday morning. Ten o’clock. He should be here. Banging through that back door, all elbows and knees, trailing sand or mud depending on the season. “Dad! Dad, guess what?” That’s how it used to be. A whirlwind of boy, smelling of salt and mischief. Now… now the silence is a physical thing. A weight pressing down, making it hard to breathe.
Her text message from last night sits on my phone. I haven’t looked. Don’t need to. I know the script. ‘Flynn’s not feeling up to it today, Rowan.’ Or, ‘Something’s come up, he can’t make it.’ Or just… nothing. Sometimes it’s just nothing. And the nothing is the worst. The nothing means I don’t even warrant an excuse anymore.
I pour water onto a teabag I don’t want. Watch the colour bleed into the mug. Like something wounded. My hands shake a bit. Always these days. A fine tremor, deep inside. Like the engine’s about to stall.
The swing creaks again. A rusty, mournful sound. I put it up for him, what, seven years ago? Flynn was five. All legs and that gappy grin. He helped. Held the bolts. Passed me the spanner, all serious concentration. His small hands on mine. Solid. Real. We spent hours out there. Him soaring, me pushing. “Higher, Dad! Higher!” His laughter, light as dandelion seeds, scattering on the wind.
Now the wind just mocks. It shoves the empty seat, making it dance a jerky little jig. A ghost on a ghost swing.
Praise for The Absence Of Me
"A raw and unflinching look into the shadows... heartbreakingly real."