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A goodbye note

On the (locked) door of flat number 7186:

So your team lost. It's the World cup, not the end of the world. You're still a little boy, throwing fits every time things don't go your way...all your rages, moods, all the broken remotes and vases and phones. I'm through. Through with you lolling on the couch, utterly useless. Calling yourself an artist, that's your excuse for everything, isn't it? The money you never get, the lack of responsibility towards what you call 'worldly things', the impulsive chase hoping that something, someone will give you your lucky break. And I just sit back and pity you and give you whatever you ask for...but no longer. That TV, you begged me for it, you knew we couldn't afford it but you begged. You're so good at begging - that's something you might want to remember - I can't believe you made me spend my hard earned money on that and broke it it was just one other thing you didn't care about. Because your team lost. I can't believe you did that. It didn't even last a fortnight...though that's longer than your attempts at writing that novel do, isn't it? It can be repaired, you say...but this, this relationship, whatever the hell it is, can never be repaired.

Your stuff is at Sid's. I'm on holiday, and you're moving out. Don't worry - not that you would - I didn't have much trouble moving it. There wasn't much...that wasn't broken.

(For my fiction assignment at WVU. Writing prompt: "I can't believe you did that.")