The Wrong Time


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.

9 comments on “The Wrong Time

  1. pcbanda says:

    Interesting viewpoint. I’ve often tried to get into a depressed person’s mind…This feels real


  2. Uh, yikes? Wrenching. Good construction, painfully real.


  3. Candy says:

    Wow! I was slammed with emotions reading this.
    I just started a blog for my short stories but haven’t posted ant yet. I do have a poetry blog though.


  4. allymccormick says:

    So this is how you do a short story in less than 300 words. Wow!

    Liked by 1 person

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