Chapter Text
(The Patient’s POV)
April 3rd 1988
My old-ass alarm clock goes off. I groan and stretch out my arm, feeling for the alarm clock, but it’s not even on my nightstand. Hell, my nightstand isn’t even there. Finally, I decide to open my eyes, only to come to the realization that I’m on my couch. “God-fucking-damnit…” I mumble to myself and try to stand up, but end up slamming against the cushions once more.
The room is dark and quite sad. Light sneaks in from the shudders into the small living room and stuff lies on the floor like driftwood on a beach. Clothes, pizza boxes, old stuff I found at a second-hand store back when I was a teenager. I can’t really get myself to throw away any of the records or strange little porcelain dolls that I don’t really have any space for in this tiny apartment.
My head feels as if it’s about to split in two, and the ringing of the alarm clock is not helping. I make another honest effort to stand up, but fail once again. Third time’s the charm. Turns out, the third time actually is the charm, because I successfully sit up. I slowly stumble my way to the bedroom, feeling ill as all hell.
I feel for the lightswitch on the bedroom wall and it turns on with a click. The room has been in a worse state, only a couple of t-shirts and magazines in a pile next to my ancient artifact of a lamp. Ugh, there’s another girl in my bed.
My fist slams down on the alarm clock, finally making the ear-bleeding ringing stop. I turn towards the girl, who was somehow still asleep. This is embarrassing… is honestly what I’m thinking as I try to shake her awake.
“Wake up” I croaked, suffering severely from morning voice. I grab her shoulders and shake her slightly, but firmly. Her eyes jolt open like she’d been electrically shocked. She opens her mouth as if to say something and then closes it again. “Huh?”, she remarks, oh so eloquently. She sits up, looking at me.
My eyes can’t even meet hers. I yawn, I can’t deal with this shit right now. My eyes spot a short, black dress on the floor, I pick it up and hand it to her. To be honest, I don’t even remember her name. For some reason, I just left the room after handing her the dress.
I go to the bathroom, without really thinking about it. The pills in the cabinet above the sink, they were calling to me. I take an ibuprofen with some tap water. The water eases my brain pain a little, yeah. I look in the mirror, and don’t like what I see. That’s just what it’s like to be me.
My face is paler than usual, heavy bags ageing me about fifteen years. It’s not like my hair is short, but for some reason my dad keeps telling me to cut it. I haven’t shaved in a while, but it’s not like I can grow a beard anyways, so it’s extremely shaggy and unflattering. I sigh and splash some water in my face. I’m just a tragic affair.
I open the bathroom door and see the girl looking at herself in the doorway mirror. My eyes look down in shame without me even being conscious of it, I have no idea what even happened last night. She is about to leave this shithole.
“Wait, hold on” I tell her. She looks over her shoulder and with a curious expression. I don’t know why, but she waited for me to say something, as if she actually gave a fuck about what I have to say. “Do you want breakfast?” I ask her, and the only response I get is a door slam. That goddamn sinking feeling.
What day is it again? Sunday, right?