"Well I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?..."
There's music playing softly behind. It's a tired summer afternoon outside, but you've stopped going outside on days like these. Today's a bad day. You knew it the moment you woke up from a disturbed sleep interrupted by the vague obscure mindfulness of tears rolling down from the edges of your eyes.
The second sign that confirmed your fears was the utter lack of an urge to get up. It confused you. Are you powerless, or do you just not want to get up?
And what if this feeling won't go away? What if you can't get up for the whole day? There's nobody to help, nobody to call for. You can't even reach the phone to call someone. There's fear building up in the pit of your stomach, a shiver going down your spine. The fear rises, with a taste of vomit at the back of your throat. Your mind races, directionless, beads of sweat on your forehead. All of a sudden, you can't breathe. It's like someone is sitting on your chest, crushing your lungs, driving the air out of you. Your own little demon, siphoning off your life.
It passes. Like it always does. Doesn't make it any easier to deal with though. At least you can get up now.
It's late. Much later than when you usually wake up. It takes you a second to realise you've stayed in bed for over an hour, awake, unable to move. Time rushes past unnoticed on days like today.
Hazy in the light sneaking between the gaps in the curtains, the loose pages on your dusty desk raise their edges in a half-hearted attempt to take flight in the light breeze. They're filled with your doodled daydreams, of places you once visited, slowly fading from memory. There's the open-haired girl holding a suitcase, looking back with a smirk on her face, unsure of return. A version of you that's vanished between the pages.
The day goes by faster than you realise. A cup of tea, gazing out of the window for hours on end, absent-minded scrawls on paper, a few pages of a book you've forgotten the name of, and soon, it's evening.
There are no people to wish goodnight to. There's just you and your bottle of pills. Magic pills. They're the lullaby you need to rid yourself of sleepless nights and waking nightmares.
It's cool outside. Perfect for sitting at the balcony looking down at the traffic below. But you were never much interested in the ways of humans. So you turn your gaze up to the sky and wait. Wait for the pills to kick in, the mild high to lull you to peace.
The only problem is, they don't work anymore.