The Routine

The Routine

It began like it always did. The Sun began to seem like it was farther and farther out of reach. She had become one with the bed. The sheets and comforter, heavy on her body, held her down in such a comforting embrace that she could barely find a reason to get out of bed. Her skin had become sallow, tinged with green and blue from days stuck inside, and her ribs had begun to poke out through the thin layer of opalescent skin that lay on her torso. The full length mirror that hung on her closet door facing her bed stood like an imposing figure, forcing her to look at herself day and night. The person who she saw reflected in that space was someone who she didn’t recognize, and didn’t want to recognize because she looked like nothing. An empty space, with empty eyes that just stared into nothing, no glint, and no fucking feelings behind them. She couldn’t bear to look at that anymore.

She knew she had to be better. She knew that if she just got out of bed, took a piss, went for a shower, and got dressed, she’d feel even minutely better. The effort was just too much. The energy didn’t exist. The need didn’t exist. The want wasn’t there. She was content with just laying in bed until the days ran out. Well, not content, laying in bed until the days ran out made her feel even worse, like a useless spec and a husk of a human being. No matter what she did, she wasn’t going to feel extremely well, so keeping herself stagnant seemed like the best thing for her to do at the moment. The television played on, with sounds that ended up transferring into her brain like the mumblings of Charlie Brown’s parents.

Absolutely Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.