I wake up, feeling nothing. There’s an emptiness inside, a crevasse. I’m not angry, I’m not sad. I’m nothing.
The heat and humidity of the night made me sweat; the sheets are damp. I get up. I walk to the bathroom, my head nauseous. I stare at that thing in the mirror, and it stares back, expressionless as ever. I brush my teeth, the water sharp and cold, piercing my hands. I spit. I spit again, the globule of minty, colourful chemicals swirling into the whirlpool of water. I watch as it disperses, mixing in with the water until it was never there – until the water drains everything away.
If only it were so easy.
God, I think to myself, stop being such a melodramatic shit.
I floss, grimacing in pain as sharp string slices gums. I stop halfway, and throw it towards the bin. It lands on the floor, drops of blood hitting the porcelain tiles. I go to the windows, open the curtains. The light hurts my eyes. I close them again and turn on the dim orange lamp. I put on some clothes. Uncomfortable and prickly on my skin, unnatural.
I look for something to eat in my tiny kitchen. An old apple and some butter with green stuff growing on the side. I eat the apple. It is tasteless, soft, bland. I sit on my chair for a while.
The phone rings.
The voice is bright, peachy. I don’t say anything but breathe heavily into the handset and hope that someone will shoot me.