Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-33904527-20190501221723

The sunshine of a new day spreads over my forehead through the window, trickling down slowly onto my closed eyelids, beckoning my weary body from my bed. It’s a Sunday, aptly named, and I turn over in my bed slowly, revelling in the softness of my sheets. The blanket cradles me like a mother to her child. There’s a beautiful view of the morning sky from the crack in the blinds. It’s almost like the hills themselves are beaming with optimism.

A smile worms its way across my face. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this. I almost can’t believe it. My surprise euphoria only intensifies as I slide out of bed. The room is bright, but not overwhelmingly so. More like a orangey haze. All the bad feelings fade away in my mind as I stare vacantly out of the window, rubbing my hands down my face. The messy clothes and stained walls don’t seem to bother me anymore.

My feet glide effortlessly into my slippers and the warmth sticks to my body even as I step into the shade of my bathroom. The tap water, which before I considered dirty and unclean, splashes across my face in an intoxicating manner. A pleasant smell hangs in the air. At first, I can’t quite place a name to it, but soon enough, I realise. Eggs and bacon. If I listen closely, I can even hear it sizzling in the saucepan downstairs, making my mouth salivate in anticipation.

I walk down the stairs slowly, savouring each inhalation I take. The kitchen is covered in a thin veil of smoke, wrapping around the doorframes and through the entire house. More heavenly rays of sunlight shine into the room, and in the middle of it all, my beautiful wife, a smile on her rosy-red lips and a saucepan in her hand. The bacon bounces softly in the air as she gently shakes the saucepan once more. We say nothing to each other: no words are needed. Just that sweet smile of hers and a nod of acknowledgement from me. She hums gently as I linger on the bottom step, soaking in her radiance.

A small bottle of pills sits motionless on the counter by her side. I examine the labelling for a moment: it’s a quarter mg of Risperdal. What was the dosage again? Once per morning, once per night. Doctor’s orders.

I unscrew the lid with little effort. A handful of colourless pills fall into my hand, powdery and dry. My wife turns slightly, looking deep into my eyes. She seems uncomfortable, begging me to put down the bottle with those starry eyes of hers. I hesitate, frowning at the pills. Wishing I could just pour them down the drain and forget. Lose myself. But I won’t forget, and I won’t lose myself, because it’s a Sunday morning and I have a job and a place to be in the outside world.

They slide down my throat slowly, leaving a powdery trail. I blink a few times and rub my eyes. Suddenly the room doesn’t seem so bright anymore. There’s mess on the floor from last night and dirty dishes to be washed. It feels quieter. And then I realise, the sizzling is gone. Now it’s just…silent. And the smell, the eggs and the bacon, that’s gone too. All that’s left is the dust in the air.

My mouth is parched. I turn once more, back to the stove, to embrace my wife, to feel her lips touch mine as I wish they could.

She’s gone.

My head hangs low as I crack a single egg into the saucepan. 