It is the morning of the 5th day and I havn't been sleeping much at all. But I think I am doing great. This a strange place as I lie on my bed next to you, watching my fan turn, listening to you mutter contently in your sleep. I question what beauty you dream of.
It's getting bareable. It's getting worse. I'm getting hot. I'm getting cold. Every emotion doesn't fail to hit me, but it hits with a stale blow. Like it's already been felt a thousand times before. Like a toy that has long lost it's novelty. Picking at the skin of my thumb as I ponder many thoughts I can't help but wonder if someone is watching me through the slits in my blinds.
I can walk a little better today. I only need one crutch instead of two because I am now able to put pressure on the side of my foot. This keeps my spirits high in the hopes of leaving the house in the next couple of days. This also lets me know it's time to test my will in resisting the drink of poor taste. It wont be much of a test because I already know the result. I will suceed.
This room has become my santiary and my own personal hell. It makes me feel protected and unreachable but it also provokes feelings of isolation and paranoia. But I need to be here. I need time to reflect. But this room, this house, it makes me notice things I'd rather happily ignore. They haved turned into zombies. Slaves to the pot. A slave to the 12 hour shifts she needs to keep their habbit thriving. He doesn't leave the house. He doesn't talk unless he is mumbling rubbish or explaining to my Mother how he disaproves of me as a person and how he wants me to move out. I can predict every movement, every move, every assumtion they make. Or maybe they're not even real. Maybe I live alone. Am I real? Am I dreaming?
I am doing good these days. I can think a lot clearer and as you can see, I'm writing again. 5th day sober is going to be a treat, Ms. Conflicted is coming to visit this afternoon. I hope the joy she bring wont feel stale. Stale like bread, not quite fresh enough to eat without toasting it but not past the point of comftable consumtion, it's not mouldy.
The fan appears to be spinning slower. Like a snail crawling across my ceiling. Your snores are deeper now, but you just woke up crying and I had to hold you until you fell into some kind of sleep. I don't mind though, because it's all I can do to help. You're ill too. Back at the keyboard I peel the skin off my lips and I wonder what my computer thinks of me. I wonder what will have become of my life by the end of this year. I wonder what my age will be when I die. It is predetermened so there has to be a way to find out when we die and well, everything.