Day 4

I was dying, or I thought I was. Nights were a blur, pained by migraines or passing out next to broken sink. The medication was running low, plagued by endless amounts of spilled bottles, and overdoses. My job didn’t even want me, apparently losing consciousness while serving food at O’Leary’s Bar wasn’t good with the customers. I didn’t mind though, jobs seemed pointless in a world where you can do anything for money. I knew it became worse when I couldn’t pay for the refill of drugs and I’d wake up screaming in the night where I didn’t want to sleep, cold sweats and an ache running through my head. My life was a mess, my hair was a mess, I was a mess. I opened my eyes. It wasn’t a dream. Shuffling to the door with slow persistence I unlocked my room 391 and let her in, an old woman whose name I didn’t remember. She eyed me up and down, gazing at my slumped posture and bags under my eyes. But she had no pity in hers, only a look of long lost fire. She cleared her throat and smoothed out her long purple cardigan. “Mr. Fitz, I’m giving you by the end of the day today. Pay me or move out. You owe me for three months.” She gave me one last glare and went back through the door.

I didn’t treasure the hard times I had. Instead I began to cry on my bed, and this time they were tears streaming down my face. Giving up wasn’t a dream of mine. I wrote this down on the pad next to me. I was instantly angry at myself, unhappy with the world with me in it. Walking to the liquor cabinet I poured another drink. And another. And another. I was done.