The Cold Light Of Day

Some mornings aren't well intending. A duvet that snakes and straps a person down to the bed- torridly harassing me. I lie there with ragged breath as icy light slices through a gap in the curtains. Last night's mental turmoil now presents as intense pain in the centre of my head. 'Fuck me,' I groan. The time? Who knows? The Clock? I flip my head to the side, straining the already sore muscles in my neck. I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them again with the expectation to see anything with clarity. Bakelite beige blurs back at me. Indistinct numbers with no alarm, and I'm still just as unsure... Glasses!My hand darts out from under the covers slapping sporadically at the bedside table. The clock was almost a complete arm's length away, too far away. I shuffle forwards, my fingertips dragging the rest of the way. My nail flicks at what I believe to be a plastic frame- rocking slightly; the shape seems good enough and I pick them out. Placing them on the bridge of my nose and pressing them against my face. I hear a click as a number flips down to reveal the new and improved time of five forty-five. Except, I trace over the numbers with my fingers feeling for the jagged crack and finding nothing. Then I realise. My hands go back up to the glasses, hesitantly placing my fingertips across the crack. 'Ah yes. That's right,' I speak as a swallow away the sour taste from my mouth.Removing the duvet from my body, I sit up, crinkled blue cotton cascades loosely down my arms. The coolness of early dawn makes my pull up the shirt all over again. I don't wait for the alarm­­-- I need coffee and coffee lives in the kitchen. I sway unsteadily on my feet like a newly planted tree fighting a storm or a drunk person, but I am neither. The walk to the kitchen reinforces the idea that I'm glad to be in a flat. The carpet makes me wish I owned my own home. Orange diamonds destroyed by the sun and footsteps make it gather like a fan at the foot of the door, distorting the already horrid pattern. I see red, but it at least warns me when I'm about to trip. The kitchen is better, with hard wooden floors, easy to clean etcetera. I clench the door frame for balance, my eyes scanning the room for the kettle. The broken glass acts as a concrete post that constantly gets in the way of what I want to see. My neck twinges as I tilt my head 'tch,' I hiss in pain.However, at the back of the kitchen, on that speckled grey counter, sits the kettle basking in warm yellow counter lights. I smile lightly and wander over. Touching the kettle with the back of my hand, it's stone cold. So, I flick open the lid and peer inside. A layer of limescale rests on the water like pond algae, 'Hmm, hard water...'. I pick the kettle up and chuck it towards the sink.It lands with a loud clattering bang, and a pure white mug soon follows. Its inner walls lined with a spiral of tea stains. I grimace at the condition of the kitchen whilst forcing the hot tap to turn. There's a gurgle, and lukewarm water spits into the sinks- pooling around the drain. Droplets of water and grime splatter against my face. The clock clicks. A sliver of steel lays dormant at the bottom. Taking a sponge from the draining rack, I scrub viciously at the limescale and other stains, pressing my nails deeply into the sponge, scratching at the metal effectively as cotton wool. The water isn't heating up, and it's pooling through my fingers, not cleaning anything. It won't go away, and my head continues to hurt. I throw it in the bin.The hiss kettle shocks me back, rattling on the cagey frame of the hob. I snatch it from the heat, swiftly tipping boiling water into the mug. The water makes quick work dissolving the coffee grounds and the familiar aromatic smell, but you get from the instant kind with the severity you get. Yet, I breathe it in deeply, and I feel warmer.The right kind of china against the lips can be as delicate as a rose petal, but then again, not many people have been hit in the face with a cup. I tap at my cheek as condensation heats up my skin uncomfortably. I take the cup away and head towards the armchair upholstered in corduroy green. One of the arms slashed into a lattice, fluff and foam poke through like pubic hair. I lower myself down and place the coffee on a table, the exposed clay grinding on the glass. I let go, and the room is unnervingly silent. Click again, and my eyes inch towards a bleach white door.The news I read is the same as it was yesterday simply because it was yesterday's paper, I knew the stories already, but certain pages had the corners dog-eared down. Child winning competition, some stuff about Ireland, an advert about a dog? They don't mean anything to me and to be perfectly frank, folding down corners of any reading material is an evil thing. I begin to fold back the pages loosely, but the damage is done.My hands look like a sketch. Deep muddy shadows layered with a rusty brown pressed into ripped cuticles. I start picking under my nails, scraping away the colour, but I still see red. I need to rewash my hands. I stare at the white door. There's this dryness at the back of my throat that I can't seem to swallow away, and now I know my coffee is cold. Click.I place all the weight on my arms, hauling myself from the chair, the corduroy fabric indenting my hands whilst my fingertips catch under the rips and foam. My stomach bears a heaviness, and it's a struggle to move. I close my eyes, briefly ignoring where I was, breathing heavily until I start to see the indistinct shapes again. I pace towards the door, taking each step as the epoch of the movement and begin to feel that bitter chill of the morning once more. The bathroom, again, isn't far away, but I find myself hesitating. With every step, I become colder. Click.There's a handprint on the doorframe I didn't know was there, who's, is it? Maybe mine. I lean against the bathroom door, and it swings open. The room is small and cramped like an unfinished game of tetras in the many shades of turquoise- which seems to be about four. The sink hides behind the door pressed into a corner with a cabinet undecided on whether it should be left or right. The mirror hangs from the hinges, and the light inside becomes dimmer with every blink. 'Bloody thing,' I muttered, slamming the door closed. My reflection becomes visible. I avoid eye contact and focus on another tap. Limescale really is a problem, the cold tap is welded unmoveable, and I'm left with a hot tap with the possibility of it being any temperature.The bathroom light flickers, and the mirror catches this light as the glass gradually steams over. I stare at my reflection. Pallid features non-descript of any character are a blank canvas for neon red gash marking my cheekbone. The centre of my forehead contains a void, deep purple. Looking down into the sink, I see a deep crack forced from the corner. I see red. So, I plunge my head into the sink, restraining my breathing, my eyes wide open. My heart pounds in my chest. Duh duh. Duh duh. Ignore the room. Violent scarlet blots disperse across drenched eyelids. Searing heat- all I can think- Ignore everything. Click.I pull my head out from the water and stare at the cabinet straining against the nails hanging from the wall. What if it had fallen down? Trickles of water escape from the locks of hair plastering my face, running onto the shirt, soaking in, making me colder. The cabinet isn't going to last much longer. I can hear metal scraping at the disintegrating wall- scoring its way out of the tight hole. The mirror still swinging, light reflections scanning back and forth across my face. Behind the light, a shadow. Distantly loitering in the background like a cheap horror picture scare. Back and forth, back and forth, the figure looms.My fingers reach out and press at the mirror, feeling the powdery texture of built-up grime, creating the experience of chalkboards that makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. Yet, the figure is gone, and I don't want to move.The cabinet gets heavier, and the room fills with more condensation, and very suddenly, I feel a slip. The mirror slides from under my fingers, crashing into the bowl of the sink. The water leaves the sink in one big wave heaving over the sides, carrying the cabinet contents with it. Non-descript pills of various pastel shades roll across the floor, dissolving in any puddle they may come across. A large opaque brown bottle spool across the tiles curving round, I follow it with groping hands. Reaching out, falling, my hands and knees coated in water and powders.The bottle hits a hand. Fingertips bent limply into the floor. There's no strength to them, no movement. Colours removed from the very skin, then I look at my hands so red and scratched their opposites. I can't bring myself to raise my eyes further than the hand—the dead hand resting on turquoise tiles surrounded by a pool of water and pills. I wonder if my hands are as cold as his now. I can't understand how I ended up here.Bzz bzz. Bzz bzz. Bzz bzz. Bzz bzz. The alarm, it has finally gone off, but I still don't know the time. Regardless what does it matter anyway? Daylight, harsh and white, means it's morning, and I have nothing else to do today. I ponder a mundane morning as I sit on the floor, breathing heavily. The water soaking up through my shirt sleeves as I turn my head with disownment of whom I'm with. I stare at the cracked reflection of myself in the mirror in the broken sink—the condensation forming into droplets, running down the glass.I drag my fingers through tangled hair as the alarm grows louder and louder, drilling into my head. I stabbed that person in the shower, in their own flat.I turn my head, and the shadows still there. He's not going away. He won't just disappear. I struggle to breathe normally- forcing air in and out sporadically. In and out, I tell myself as my body does the opposite. I snatch the bottle from the floor and struggle to my feet—the cold water. I can't feel my feet. I have to pull myself up using the sink, and as I do, the sharp pain in my side returns.I look down at the bottle in my hand, toss it from palm to palm for a moment, and place it gently on the side. The water's stopped flowing now, and as I lift my fingers away, the alarm fades to silence with another click.'I should leave.' I speak to the reflection, he doesn't answer.