Alarm clock, off. One foot in front of the other, just like the doctor said. I shower, brush my teeth, look in the mirror, and hate myself. Twenty-three hours and nineteen minutes left in the day.
I get dressed, microwave a breakfast heart attack, and turn over an empty bottle of depression meds. Shit, not good. Five months of refills and the pharmacy doesn’t open until 8 a.m. when I need to be at work. I hate that job and everything about it. Why did they hire me for customer service? I don’t sound happy. I’ve never sounded happy because I’ve never been happy. I hate the fake chit-chat, the “How are you doing?” every Godawful morning without a second’s wait for my answer, though I never respond.
I start my walk. My pharmacy is a block from work. I’ll clock in late at 8:10 a.m., someone will notice, and they’ll tell the boss I’m slacking again. I’m always screwing up somehow.
I pass Rusty’s Drinkery. Good thing it’s not open this early – Jack Daniels is a great kisser.
I feed my brain its anti-depressant and start the path to paycheck Hell. I make it two steps, and I see the exterior of my building rupture into a tidal wave of glass and fire. Blood claws at the sky, and I shield my eyes from the smoke and death. No one survived that.
Jealousy burns inside of me. Of all mornings, I had to run out of meds today.