Work Text:
It’s 10am.
The phone rings left of my head. In my dream, it’s just some random outside noise. It takes a moment for my mind to register that it’s not in my brain, it’s an outside force trying to wake me up.
My eyes open, it burns. The contact reads “Work”, my original seasonal job. My manager tells me about the schedule and when to call back to see when I can get the exact dates and times. Through my grogginess it’s hard to understand but piece by piece, like a puzzle, it’s understandable.
After hanging up, I lay in bed until I absolutely need to leave my room. It’s not even comfortable. I want to get out of bed. I want to do things. I need to do anything. But I don’t.
I still lay there.
It’s 12:30pm by the time I lift my rotting organism of a body out of it’s nest. Knees creak from last night’s work. The pretzels I had devoured will hold me over until I start to fall apart at the seams. There’s a heavy fog behind my eyes, it hurts to think about anything else behind what I need to do to get ready right now. Any future task is just a burden. A weight drowning me.
I don’t brush my teeth.
The oils in my scalp make my hair flatter. Running my fingers through the bangs – trying to be perceived as more than what I am – the oil sticks to my skin. Gross. There’s an intrusive need to scrub every inch of exposed, ruined skin until it’s raw. Red of meat and blood.
I wish I could right now.
Heading outside, the frigid air hits my cheeks and the tip of my nose like a disgusting smog. There’s no one in sight. It’s me and the cement. Breathing out, a cloud of organic steam leaves my mouth and nose mimicking that of a smoker taking a drag. This brings an idea into my head.
Instead of taking the usual route to work, my body continues straight on the main road. Cars buzz by, fizzing in and out of my eardrums. The thought of going straight into it floats around. I don’t commit to the action. Too variable and public.
By the time I reach the gas station, my knee starts to make itself known. A numbing pain rubs itself through every nerve and muscle connecting the two segments of limb together. Underneath the kneecap to the main hinge’s movement. I want to brace myself against the wall, but I don’t. I just walk slower. Loosely making my way up and down each aisle. I’m not looking for anything.
“Light 100s,” I request the storekeeper.
“Really?” He replies.
I don’t say anything back. I just look at his eyes, lids feeling like to weights. Exerting any effort to stand there. The knee still throbs with pain.
“Kid, I know you ain’t old enough.”
I shuffle within my coat pocket for my ID (albeit fake) for him when he raises his hand to stop me.
“Don’t waste either of our times. Just grab you’s usual n leave.” He gestured to the fridge door in the back with his tired eyes. There’s a scar on the upper lid of his right. It’s only noticeable if he relaxes most of the muscles in his face.
I shuffle to grab an energy drink and head back to the counter. There’s still no one else in the store. People start to pass through the window. They’re too consumed with their own destinations that none bother to peek in and see us.
I set the can down. The sound of the aluminum hitting the hard surface echoes in the silence. It’s the only outside noise, besides my own breathing. Neither of us speaks for a moment as he scans the drink and messes with the cash register.
By the time I hand him the cash, $2.57, he stops and looks back at me. He takes a visible pause, thinking before speaking. It feels performative. Is it?
“Kid, I’m worried about you. Y’know?”
“Mhm,” my eyes are fixated at the cash in my hand.
“Listen, I know it’s not my business but I ain’t gunna let you get addicted to another shitty thing. You already got a few on your plate,” he glances at the bandage on my arm, “Cigs would only be an appetizer.”
He lets out a forced laugh to try and relieve any awkwardness. It doesn’t work. I just stare at his nose bridge, waiting for him to continue. “Just look out for ye’self, slick.”
I pay for my shit and leave.