The table is set in front of me, wide diameter a barrier between us. Five mahogany chairs encircle it, holding myself and three familiar faces. The last chair, to my right, is empty.
Plates have been heaped with food. Though the other family members are close to finishing their meal, mine hasn't been touched, and sits cold in front of me.
"Aren't you going to eat?" asks my sister in a muffled voice, face stuffed with mashed potatoes. Before I can respond, my father shoots her a cold glare. Saying silently, 'don't bother with him.'
The tension is palpable.
I glance to my right, at the empty chair. If I focus hard enough, I can see a ghostly outline reveal itself, shaping a person. But quickly the image is snatched from me by a sea of oblivion.
My vision blurs as I look back at the plate. Strange, I think, and lift up my hand to my eyes. I can't seem to rub out the blur. The edge of my finger tastes unmistakable wetness, and something drips down my cheek, becoming salt on my lips.
What was I crying for? Pathetic. Just confirming their thoughts about me. A waste of space. A failure.
Yet for some reason I could not stop.
Something was missing, and I could do naught but mourn its absence.