The Absent Emptiness

My neck hurt, waking up at my cramped desk.
It was covered with paper, pens, and other random office supplies. I honestly can't recall falling asleep, let alone at my desk. My bed is a perfectly acceptable place.
I got up, stretched, yawned, tasted and smelled my morning breath, and headed to the bathroom.
I yawned again as I looked at myself in the mirror. A small yellow post-it-note was stuck to my forehead. I pulled it off and tossed it into the trash bin. I saw I had deep indentions on my face, arms, and wrists from sleeping on the pens, pencils, and markers I had scattered on my desk.
I must have knocked over the pencil mug in my sleep and somehow made my way over them through the night.

As I brushed my teeth, I contemplated the day, what I needed to do or get done. But like every morning, my mind began to wander and I started to thing about my writing.
It had been awhile since I had last written something and submitted it.
Ethan wasn't much of a help, always saying that I had to give to the masses what they wanted.
I was sick of giving people what they wanted from me, that completely ruins the whole purpose and concept of writing. It's like trying to cry on command.
I didn't want to write for the sake of writing, I wanted to write because I enjoyed it and wanted others to see, feel, believe, and imagine everything the same way I did if not more. I wanted to inspire, have movies based off my novels, get awards for short fiction and poetry, do big book signings, I wanted to be loved for what I loved.

My thoughts were interrupted when my voicemail beeped loudly to make sure I was annoyed enough to remember to check my messages.
I had missed a phone call, most likely Ethan or Echo, one of my companions who wanted to see how I was holding up with Hunter having died.
But it turned out to be my mother.

"Hey Tyler! This is your mother calling! I just wanted to check on you, make sure you were doing okay. I got your phone call last week, and you sounded really tense and uptight. It made me a little nervous and...scar- concerned. I heard about Hunter, and I'm sorry. I know you plan on going to the funeral, and if you need support, and can't find anyone else...I guess I'll go with you. But you know how I hate funerals...ever since your father and all. Well...I'm sure you can ask Gwen, you remember Sue's little niece? You two should get together sometime right? Well, I'm done rambling, love you. Bye!"

Gwen, don't think so. She's just turned 21 and her mind needs to catch up with the rest of her. My mother and Gwen's Aunt Susan were close friends, always trying to match me up with someone.
None sufficed, and none shared the same interests as me.
None liked to write, let alone read, and they always tried to get me to change my interests to cater them. Fuck that honestly, you either like me for who I am as is, or get the hell out.
Okay, maybe I'm being a little too harsh here, Gwen is a very lovely young lady, I just never really thought of her in that way. Whenever we did talk, it was about simple things, like movies, jokes, school, ambitions. Never was it involving, love, sex, drugs, rock and roll. No, just plain simple talk.
I liked her enough, but I wasn't in love with her.

If only someone could write like my mystery writer!
Now I remembered what I was doing at my desk late last night.
I had worked on the beat up poem, trying to find a way to clean up the stains.
I couldn't think of anything that would work, the stains were too deep and removing them was out of the question.
I had fallen asleep at my desk before I could think of anything else.
But it was obvious, I should at least try and hold it up to the light and see if I can make something out.
I walked over to the window in the bedroom and drew back the curtains. I held the paper up to the sunlight and became excited when I could make some of the lettering.
I could make out "LO-A --LOE".
"Loa Loe?" I said out loud.
Was it a male or female? The writing was in regular print and not cursive, so that was a blessing. The problem was that only some of the inking was legible, the rest was muddied by the blood splash. There was some lettering, but it was too faint at this point to make out and I didn't own a magnifying glass.
I had to know! I had to find out if they had more to read and if they were even still alive!
I concluded that they couldn't have been young, because no one young could write such compelling work. But I soon rationalized that away, age was not a factor and it was stupid to think so.
I became excited like a frat boy visiting an all girl catholic college locker room, I leapt for my phone, eager to call Ethan and ask him to open up Hunter's old place so I could finger through his Rolodex, but halted.
Knowing him, he wouldn't want to go out on a limb and help me find a complete stranger, let alone want to step foot back in that place if it weren't for clearing out more of his stuff. I retracted my outstretched hand.
Shit, I wasn't about to drive back over there and break in. I reluctantly picked up the phone and dialed in Ethan's number.