Work Text:
It's 7:05 in the morning.
You don't want to stay in bed. Not necessarily.
There is nothing fun about lying awake. Not really, anyway.
You want to move, want to warm up your muscles. Your entire body shivers, for no apparent reason. The covers are warm, and they weigh on your limbs in a comforting way. And your nerves burn.
You don't move.
There is an empty space in your chest, and the lack of pressure is painful. It aches. It feels heavy, like your chest is collapsing on itself. But you are alive, as far as anyone can tell, so it mustn't be.
A soft knock sounds on the door and the hinges clack as the door opens.
Your eyes are open, staring at the space between you and the nearest wall. Light slips in as the blinds open, coating the walls and every piece of furniture in the room before blinding you.
Footsteps exit the room and a low hum reverberates on the walls of the corridor through the door left open. Anyone in this apartment at the moment should know by now, though, that you hate when the door is left open.
You have to move.
You have to.
You want to.
You can't. Not right now. Even as the light warms the air beyond your eyelids, now closed.
You will. Eventually. When music starts to play next door, at 7:25 AM sharp; the neighbor's alarm so loud it seeps through the adjoining wall even on the weekends. It's not bad music. You've grown used to it by now.
This neighbor moved in four years ago, started waking up every day at 7:25 AM last year, got a new partner around three months ago, and renovated their kitchen two weeks ago. You've learned quite a few things about your neighbor the unpleasant way, maybe because you never actually bothered talking to them, but there's no point in making conversation now.
It's 7:26 AM.
There is an empty space in your head, where emotions and thoughts should be.
You make your way to the kitchen, because you've read somewhere that breakfast is essential to keep your ability to think throughout the morning, and for now, your memory remains functional. You like it that way. Functional.
The room is dimly lit by a yellow wall-lamp that is only ever on when the sun is down.
There is a distinct smell of coffee in the air, misshapen strawberries in a bowl and buttered toasts on a plate.
You hover in the space between the chair pulled in front of the plate, and the table.
It's funny, you think. This is where you should feel at ease —a seat at the table in your own kitchen— but you feel like you don't belong. There or anywhere, for that matter.
Finally you pick a fruit, and eat it, before sitting down awkwardly without moving the chair. The strawberries are sweet, and the bread is a bit crispier than the way you like it. There is nothing to say about the coffee. It's just coffee.
There is an ant in the bowl. You watch it desperately struggle to climb up the smooth edge.
There is an empty space in the palm of your hands and an itch at the tip of your fingers.
You stay still and let the itch grow.
Until you can't, and you have to get up, grab the bowl with both hands and send the ant flying with a sharp exhale, before putting the bowl in the sink along with the empty plate, the butter knife, two spoons, a tall glass and a mug. You rinse everything thoroughly and abandon the kitchen, turning the light off.
The sun has risen.
It's already 8:37 AM
The TV is on. It's just the news. Something upsetting, as always: they finally found the body of that eight year old child who had gone missing seven years ago.
The channel zaps.
It's gonna rain today, and tomorrow, and the day after.
Your umbrella broke a few days ago and you haven't bought a new one since. You forgot, or maybe thought you wouldn't need it urgently.
But it doesn't really matter, because there is an umbrella in the entrance. A beautiful powder blue thing, with a wooden handle and an accent beige strap to keep it closed.
The channel zaps again, and classical music fills the empty space in the room.
You always found it fascinating, the way vibrations take up space like that. The way you can feel it in your bones but not on your skin.
You let the music shake you until it comes to an end, only fifteen minutes later.
You don't need to work today, and it's raining.
The refrigerator is stocked neatly with enough food to last you three days and you still have flour, sugar, canned legumes, chocolate, coffee beans…
Your house plants sit, all healthy, on shelves or windowsills. You watered some of them just yesterday, as you should have.
It seems as though they are thankful someone made that spreadsheet to make sure they are never forgotten.
Your mind is blank and without anything better to do, you reach for anything to read, an escape really.
You take hold of your phone easily and lose yourself for some long minutes in the warmest corner of your apartment.
The screen in your hand dims and your reflection stares at you with tired eyes.
Time really is a b--other, when it escapes you like that.
It's 11:45 AM
You go rummage through the pantry to find something that looks like it would make you feel alive if you ate it. You don't really feel like cooking at the moment.
As you start to believe you will have to survive on a few light snacks, the smell of lasagna begins wafting through the air. Blessed be the fruit loops!
The oven is half open and a smile shines your way as plates are deposited onto the table.
You eat in comfortable silence.
A few exchanged glances serve to quiet the noise in your head and it's all you need for now.
"What are you doing this afternoon?"
You don't know. You hum and eat another bite.
"Would you like to paint with me? I wanted to try something I saw on Pinterest."
Painting does sound nice. You wouldn't describe yourself as an artistic soul, but you have the kind of synesthesia that makes abstract art feel right and maybe that means something, or maybe you're delusional.
Either way, painting sounds nice, like a pretext for letting everything out, coral candlewax on the floor and sage green tears on poppy-red dreamscapes.
"Sure"
The dishes are done and back in the cupboards when you get ready to paint, pulling your hair back with a silly headband.
A plastic tablecloth covers the living room table and a jazz playlist you haven't heard before blankets the room.
Acrylic in tubes, canvases and paint brushes invade the empty space on top of the tablecloth.
Yellow clouds and turquoise fields are copied off of a screen and pasted on a canvas. The other canvas looks like a shout born into colors.
It takes hours, always mixing more colors, and hovering around to get a better view, but by evening, you are finally satisfied with every detail, and also positively covered in paint.
Cleaning the brushes and palettes, elbows knocking into each other, you smile brightly as you discuss your artworks and talk about eating the leftover lasagna for dinner.
It's 6:18 PM.
The clouds are so dark that the moon is hidden, but their presence seems less daunting now. The street lights are on.
A violet-scented candle melts in the center of the kitchen table.
This time, a light conversation has replaced the comfortable silence as you eat, clear the table and do the dishes. It slowly dies down as you start your nighttime routine.
Your eyes blink at a slower pace now. Your inner monologue doesn't translate well into conversation anymore. Your feet bring you towards rest on their own.
The blinds are still open when you enter your room.
Looking at the dark sky, you wish upon shooting stars that may or may not hide behind the thick clouds, that the powder blue umbrella will still be at your door tomorrow, that you will have enough energy to cook tomorrow, that you won't have to face the empty space tomorrow, that the warmth will remain.
You don't really believe stars have a will, but you hope they are capable of generosity, somehow.
You close the blinds and throw yourself into Morpheus' embrace easily.
The stars are benevolent, or maybe they had no say in how energized you felt waking up the following day.