a novel i wrote about addiction

//sorry if this is long, please read :) \\

Noah wakes up every morning at exactly three o’clock. He always tries to fall back asleep, but deep down, he knows it’s pointless. By the time the clock strikes seven, he’s already standing under the showerhead. He knows the hot water will run out after twenty minutes, yet he spends the first ten just standing there, lost in thought, letting the steam fog up the mirrors and his mind. As usual, he skips breakfast. “I should slow down a bit,” he tells himself, even though he knows skipping meals isn’t any healthier than forcing down a sandwich or two.

The familiar sound of arguing echoes from the kitchen. His mother and her boyfriend, always the same script. They claim they’re just “talking things through” or “reaching an understanding,” but Noah knows better. Everyone does. It's shouting in the morning, tension at night—a cycle that never seems to break.

At 8:30, he unlocks his bike from the storage room and pedals slowly down to the local Ica store, where he works—even on Saturdays. The job is dull. Nothing ever really happens, and the weekends blur together like copies of the same gray page. Truthfully, he doesn’t even want to get out of bed most days, but his mom can barely afford groceries. Even though the pay is lousy, it’s enough for bread and butter. That’s something.

Throughout the day, he’s scolded by four old men and two elderly women—which, for him, is surprisingly low. A curious little boy asks what happened to his arm, and Noah smiles. “I time-travel sometimes,” he says. “All the way back to the dinosaur age. But they’re not as friendly as you'd think.” He hopes the kid believes him. It’s easier than explaining the truth.

When the clock finally hits five, he quickly gathers his things and bikes home on his old, gray ladies’ bicycle. He wishes he could afford a decent mountain bike, something that didn’t rattle every time he hit a bump, but every coin he earns is already spoken for.

At home, he considers calling a friend, maybe heading into town. But Louise is busy with her horse, and Arvid is off with other friends. So instead, he slumps down on the couch with a bowl of chips and turns on the TV. He thinks about the calories, feels a pang of guilt—but thirty minutes later, the bowl is empty, just a few crumbs left at the bottom.

Eventually, he considers calling his real dad—not the man his mom lives with now, the one who lies and yells and breaks things. He picks up his phone, dials the number, listens to it ring. Then, just before the call connects, he hangs up. The silence that follows is louder than the ringing.

He knows he overthinks everything. He always has. So he gets up from the couch, grabs his bag, and heads out the door. His ugly bike waits for him like a loyal old dog. He rides it across town, the tires whispering against the pavement, until he reaches the place where he and his friends usually hang out.

He tosses his bag to the ground and pulls out a cigarette. He knows it’s bad for him, but it quiets something inside him—if only for a little while. He sits alone in the dark for nearly an hour, the cold biting at his fingertips, the smoke curling like ghosts into the night sky.

Then his phone buzzes. A text from his mom. Angry words, of course. He doesn’t even open it. He just stares at the screen, heart thudding. All he wants is to run. Run far, run fast, until everything is behind him and all that’s left is a fresh start. But he knows—it’s not his mother that’s broken. It’s the man who convinced her that drugs and alcohol could fix everything. And now, she’s lost in it too.

And Noah, well... he’s just trying not to fall with her.

sunday morning -John