My Hallucinations Ahh

There were a company that have a similar name and is a spectacular company. Not theirs. Doug had this dream of moving around but he was just too lazy to do so.

Doug parked his beaten-down FedUpEx truck outside a convenience store parking lot, engine rattling like the final death throes of a forgotten machine. The truck had once been bright white, a symbol of reliability and efficiency. Now, it was grayish-brown, weathered by time, neglect, and an obscene amount of spilled coffee. Doug sighed, staring at the mountain of identical brown boxes stacked behind him—each one stamped with the same haunting label:

Recipient: AFO

Address: THE SAME DAMN PLACE AS ALWAYS

Doug didn't know who AFO was. No one knew who AFO was. He had been delivering packages to this person for years, and yet, not once had he seen a single human being receive them. No doors opening. No signatures. Just a mailroom abyss that swallowed package after package, never questioning, never hesitating. It was unnatural. Unholy, even. But Doug had long since stopped questioning it.

He reached for his half-charged phone, already sensing the doom that awaited him.

Janet.

The name alone made him want to drive the truck into a lake.

He debated not answering. Just staring at the screen, letting it ring until it stopped, pretending for a few glorious moments that this reality didn't exist. But he knew better. If he didn't pick up, she would call again. And again. And again. Until eventually, he would break.

Doug exhaled, a man resigned to his fate, and answered.

"Doug."

She never said "hello." Never gave him a moment to breathe. Always straight to the point. A verbal sniper.

"Janet."

"Where's. The. Money."

Doug closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, watching the single fluorescent light above the convenience store flicker like his last shreds of sanity.

"Janet, it's complicated."

"Doug, I swear to GOD, if you say 'it's complicated' one more time, I will physically manifest through this phone and strangle you myself."

"Okay, but hear me out—"

"No. No hearing you out. You've had MONTHS to be heard out. You've had TIME. What you HAVEN'T had is a single moment of financial responsibility for your own kid."

Doug stared out the window, watching a homeless guy and a raccoon fight over an old sandwich near the dumpster.

"Doug?"

Doug pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Look, Janet. I'm in a rough spot right now."

"No, Doug. A rough spot is losing your job. A rough spot is your car breaking down. What you're doing is just being A DEADBEAT."

Doug winced.

"Hey. That's a little harsh."

"Is it? IS IT, DOUG? I have been patient. I have been understanding. But we are past that. We are in 'consequences' territory now."

Doug gripped the steering wheel like it was the last piece of driftwood from a sinking ship. He had rehearsed this conversation in his head before. He had prepped himself for every possible counterargument, every guilt trip, every emotional maneuver Janet would throw at him.

And yet, somehow, it still caught him off guard.

"Janet, please, just listen—"

"No, Doug. YOU listen. Our son needs SHOES. SHOES, Doug. You know what those are, right? Little things that go on human feet so they don't have to walk around like goddamn cavemen?"

"YES, JANET, I KNOW WHAT SHOES ARE."

"Do you? Because if you did, MAYBE you'd think about BUYING SOME FOR YOUR CHILD instead of spending all your money on GAS STATION HOT DOGS."

Doug threw his head back against the seat.

"FOR THE LAST TIME, JANET, I DON'T EAT GAS STATION HOT DOGS."

"You absolutely do, Doug. I can hear it in your voice. You sound like a man who just ate a questionable sausage."

Doug stared at himself in the rearview mirror. His eyes were hollow. Lifeless. The eyes of a man who had, in fact, eaten a questionable sausage earlier that day.

He said nothing.

"You have no defense, do you?"

"I—Janet, that's not the POINT."

"Oh? What IS the point, Doug?"

Doug opened his mouth. Paused. Realized he had no point. Closed his mouth.

Janet sighed in a way that made his soul leave his body.

"Doug. I just want you to be a father."

Doug felt a pang of guilt in his chest. It was a rare emotion for him, usually buried beneath layers of denial, sarcasm, and caffeine. But there it was. Staring him in the face.

He looked at the stack of AFO packages behind him. He had so many deliveries to make. So many meaningless, repetitive, soul-draining deliveries.

And yet, here he was. Stuck.

"Janet…" he started.

But before he could finish, a loud beeping interrupted him.

Doug looked at his phone screen.

Low Battery.

1% left.

He panicked.

"Janet, my phone's gonna d—"

The screen went black.

Silence.

Doug stared at it, unblinking.

Slowly, he turned forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

Outside, the homeless guy and the raccoon had stopped fighting. They now just sat together, sharing the sandwich in mutual understanding.

Doug felt envy.

His phone buzzed.

Powering back on.

And then, immediately, it rang again.

Janet.

Doug let out a single, broken laugh.

And answered.

Doug stared at the phone screen for a second too long before answering. He could still turn it off. He could throw it out the window, let it shatter on the pavement, blame it on an unfortunate accident. Maybe a bird swooped in and took it. Maybe a rogue FedUpEx drone malfunctioned and vaporized it. So many possibilities.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He was not free. He would never be free.

With a sigh that could have collapsed a dying star, he answered.

"Doug."

Janet's voice was tired now. Not the same frustrated, fiery energy as before, but the worn-down, exhausted disappointment that somehow felt infinitely worse.

Doug ran a hand down his face.

"Look, Janet, I—"

"No, Doug. You look."

Doug blinked. That was new.

"I have spent—" Janet's voice started cracking, like she was seconds away from snapping, "—MONTHS waiting for you to just… step up. Just do the bare MINIMUM. And every time, Doug—every SINGLE time—I get the same excuses. The same nonsense. The same avoidance tactics. And I am. So. Tired."**

Doug felt a weird, painful twist in his stomach. Not quite guilt—more like that feeling when you know you should say something but also know that whatever you say will only make it worse.

Still, he tried.

"Janet, I just need a little more time—"

"NO, DOUG."

Oh, she was pissed again.

"NO MORE TIME. NO MORE EXCUSES. WE ARE NOT DOING THIS ANYMORE."

Doug opened his mouth, but Janet kept going, voice sharp as a knife and just as fast.

"Do you know what it's like, Doug? Do you know what it's like to look at your own child and see disappointment? To see them start realizing that the one person who's supposed to show up for them just… doesn't?"

Doug's grip on the phone tightened.

"I AM showing up, Janet, I—"

"SHOWING UP? WHERE, DOUG? WHERE EXACTLY HAVE YOU 'SHOWN UP'? BECAUSE IT SURE AS HELL ISN'T HERE."

Doug leaned back in the driver's seat, staring at the ceiling. A single loose air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror, swinging slightly in the tension-heavy silence.

"Janet, I…"

"No. You know what? No. I don't even care anymore, Doug."

That one hurt.

Janet was many things. But apathetic wasn't one of them.

Doug could hear her taking deep breaths on the other end, like she was trying very hard not to throw her phone across the room.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Outside, a cat was now standing on top of his truck, staring down through the windshield, silently judging him.

Doug rubbed his eyes.

"Janet, I swear, I'll figure it out. I just—"

"I don't want to hear that, Doug."

"But—"

"No. I don't want to hear 'I'll figure it out.' I don't want to hear 'I need more time.' I don't want to hear 'it's complicated.' I want ACTION, Doug. I want PROOF. And if you can't give me that—"

She stopped.

Doug's heart dropped.

"Janet?"

She sighed. Long. Slow. Heavy.

"If you can't give me that, then I think we're done here."

Doug's chest tightened.

"Wait. Janet, what do you mean 'done'?"

Silence.

A bad kind of silence.

The kind that wasn't frustrated or angry or fed up, but the kind that was just… empty.

Doug sat up straight.

"Janet, don't—"

Click.

She hung up.

Doug sat there, unmoving.

His phone screen went dark again. The call was over.

Outside, the judgmental cat jumped off the truck, disappearing into the night.

Doug slowly set the phone down.

Then, without thinking, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel.

He didn't even realize he had been holding his breath.

Doug stared at the package in the passenger seat.

Another AFO delivery. Another meaningless box in a long, unbroken chain of meaningless boxes.

He could keep driving. He could pretend this was just another work shift. He could shove the entire conversation into a dark, locked room in the back of his brain and go back to business as usual.

But he couldn't.

Not this time.

Not when it felt like he had just lost something he wasn't ready to lose.

Doug exhaled sharply and grabbed his phone.

He pulled up Janet's contact.

Hesitated.

Then, finally—he typed.

[Doug: I'll get the money.]

A minute passed. Then another.

No response.

Doug gripped the steering wheel.

Finally, his phone buzzed.

[Janet: Good.]

Doug sat back.

Stared out at the road ahead.

Then, without another word, he put the truck into drive.

And kept moving forward.

(For now.)

Doug was back on the road. The city lights blurred past him, neon streaks of meaningless color against the dull backdrop of his thoughts. The truck rumbled beneath him—just another machine going through the motions. Just like him.

The AFO packages sat in the back. Endless. Unfazed. Mocking him. Every single one of them, a little piece of a bigger system. A system that didn't care about his problems. A system that would keep going, whether he delivered them or not.

Janet's text was still on his screen. "Good."

Doug sighed through his nose, running a hand through his hair.

He had no plan. He had no clue where he was getting the money. He had no clue what the hell he was doing, period.

But he was driving.

That was all he could do.

Until his phone rang.

Doug glanced at the screen.

Janet.

Doug stared.

The night was silent around him. The truck hummed softly.

Doug's finger hovered over the answer button.

Then, before he could stop himself—he picked up.

"Yeah?"

A pause.

Then—

"Doug, what the hell are you even DOING?"

Doug groaned, already rubbing his temples.

"Janet, please, it's too late for this—"

"NO. NO, IT'S NOT. IT WAS TOO LATE SIX MONTHS AGO. I AM JUST ASKING—WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS? WHAT IS YOUR ENDGAME?"

Doug tightened his grip on the wheel.

"You already said your piece, Janet."

"No, Doug. I didn't. Because if I did, you'd have actually LISTENED for once."

Doug let out a sharp breath, trying very hard to keep his voice even.

"Fine. Say it. Say what you wanna say."

Janet didn't hesitate.

"You don't care, Doug. You just DON'T. And I don't understand WHY."

Doug's fingers twitched.

"You know that's not true."

"Do I? Because from where I'm standing, Doug, all I see is a guy who keeps making the SAME CHOICES and expecting DIFFERENT RESULTS."

Doug gritted his teeth.

"Janet, I am WORKING. I am TRYING."

"TRYING WHAT, DOUG? TRYING TO RUN AWAY? BECAUSE THAT'S ALL YOU'VE EVER DONE."

Doug's chest ached.

She wasn't wrong.

But he couldn't admit that.

"I'm doing my best."

Janet laughed.

But it wasn't a happy laugh. It was a bitter, tired, hollow thing.

"Doug, if this is your best, then that's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Doug winced.

The words cut deeper than he wanted them to.

For a second, he didn't say anything.

Then, finally—

"You done?"

Another pause.

Then—Janet sighed.

"Yeah. I'm done."

Doug exhaled.

"Alright, then."

Click.

The call ended.

Doug set the phone down, staring out at the empty, endless road ahead.

He knew the fight wasn't over.

But for now, he just kept driving.

Like always.

Doug's grip on the steering wheel was tight—too tight. His knuckles had long since turned white, but he didn't notice. The echoes of Janet's words still rattled around in his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull like stray bullets with nowhere to land.

"If this is your best, then that's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

The truck's tires hummed against the pavement. The headlights stretched ahead, illuminating an empty road that stretched into infinity. Somewhere in the back, nestled between towers of identical, unassuming brown boxes, sat the AFO packages.

Doug hated them.

He hated how they just sat there. Like they owned the place. Like they weren't completely ruining his life.

His phone vibrated again.

Doug glanced at it.

Janet.

Another text.

He didn't want to look.

But he did anyway.

 Janet (1:02 AM)

 Doug.

 Say something.

Doug's jaw tightened.

Say something?

What was there left to say?

He started typing.

Then stopped.

Then deleted it all.

He let the phone drop back onto the passenger seat and kept driving.

The truck rumbled on.

The world outside blurred past, a meaningless smear of darkness and neon glow.

And then—somewhere, deep in the abyss of Doug's mind, something snapped.

Doug reached over, grabbed his phone, and hit call.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Then—

Janet picked up.

"Doug?"

Doug took a breath.

"Do you think it would've been different?"

A pause.

"What?"

"If I hadn't taken this job. If I had… I don't know. Done something else. Anything else. Would it have made a difference?"

Silence.

Then—Janet sighed.

"Doug, why does it always come back to this?"

"Because I don't know the answer, Janet. And I feel like you do."

"You really think I have all the answers?"

"I think you have more than me."

Silence again.

Then—softly—

"Doug… you made your choices."

Doug swallowed.

"Yeah. I did."

Janet exhaled, slow and heavy.

"And you have to live with them."

Doug's fingers twitched.

Live with them.

Like he'd been doing all this time.

Like he'd always be doing.

The truck hummed beneath him. The road stretched ahead.

Doug nodded to himself.

"Yeah."

And then—

Click.

The call ended.

Doug set the phone down.

And he kept driving.

Because that was all he could do.