I cry as the gun falls from my sweaty hands.
He stands there, watching.
I glare at his blank face.
“What the fuck do you want!” I yell through sobs.
In anger, i throw the gun at him.
It passes through his imaginary mass.
I stand and pass my wasteland to the fridge.
I open it.
I slam it closed and it shakes.
I look around and see him, still watching.
I’m embarrassed even though I know he’s not real.
Walk to table.
I sit in the chair I’ve sat in so many times.
I stand up and kick the table over with a mad yell.
I walk to the couch. Sit.
The TV flickers on. *