I didn't want to wake up on the 17th of April at 10:43 AM. But my body did anyways, dragging my mind with it. Sometimes, life doesn't hand you lemons—it just forces your eyes open and makes you keep them that way.
That pulling sensation as I try to wake... It's like my body is resisting my mind.
I think of something joyful, to brighten my mood.
Easter is here. The holiday of chocolate eggs and... Pastel colors. It used to really mean something—joy, discovery maybe—but now it's just a mark on the calendar, some free time outside of school. Once you hit 16, it seems the magic fades, replaced by the slow rot of responsibility, of futures you didn't ever concieve.
The two pillows behind me are crushed like I'd been fighting something in my sleep. Maybe I was. I turn my head toward the window. The curtains barely do their job. Light leaks in like it owns the place, making my eyes itch.
This room has become a pig-sty. A little tomb with cans on the floor, different brands, different poisons. None of them fix anything. The wardrobe's empty. No clothes.
"Oh. Washing up day," I mutter. So someone's already been in here. Makes my skin crawl.
The whole space looks like it gave up before I did. The desk's on its last legs under piles of books and mugs. The bookshelves are choked with crumpled past papers—promises of better days that never showed up. A buzz cuts through the silence.
My eyes flick to my phone. Reflex. Not addiction, not really—just desperation with a signal.
Discord notification. Profile picture I don't recognize.
Mystery Man: Would you like a chance to turn your life around?
Seriously? I let out a bitter laugh. Fifth random DM this month. Another stranger selling salvation, a course, a secret I don't want.
I block him. I always block them. And then wish, briefly, it was someone who mattered. A friend. But no one really checks in anymore. They've got their own falling-apart to deal with. Their own problems that need solving. Their own love songs that they want to experience.
So why would they think of me?
My bed is a disaster. The blanket weighs more than it should, like it coninsided the gravity in the room. Four pillows, but only two I can stand—the stripy red and green ones. The rest might as well be trying to scratch me to sleep.
My life has color. It just doesn't like to come near me, doesn't like to associate with me.
I try sweeping trash into the bin in the corner, but it's laughable—like shoveling dirt in a collapsing mine. It all falls back down with a sigh, rearranged but still present and disgusting. Like myself.
I throw on some grey joggers, a black shirt. A hoodie too. Armor for no war, but perhaps for a day of procrastination and scrolling.
The hallway is still and cold. I pass closed doors without knocking. We're a small family, physically close but miles apart. My sister's off at college, my parents locked into online meetings just a few rooms away—but I could scream and they wouldn't hear it. Nothing matters, or at least telling myself that makes me feel slightly better. The reservation of expectations, it's enough.
In the bathroom, the mirror stares at me. My face twitches, involuntary and tired. Hair like a dying swath, skin like gravel. I brush my teeth just to make the bitterness of life taste like gross mint instead.
The stairs creak beneath me. The handrail's barely holding on. I kind of get it.
Downstairs is louder. Not livelier. Just noisier. Voices behind closed doors, laughter that doesn't belong to me. I head to the kitchen without much else to do.
The dining room's a ghost. We used to sit there together. Now it's a table for four with no use other than for aesthetic purposes.
Like apples on our backyard tree—eventually, we all seperate. And then we rot, quietly, where we land.
I wait for the toast to finish. Scroll on my phone to pass time, or maybe to pass thought. Other people's lives are loud, filtered, colorful. Mine is the guy in the back, I say it's not so bad. But I only say that because it is very bad. I know it's bad, but the only way to change is to suffer. And suffering more makes me afraid.
The toast is dry—no butter. Swallowed down like cardboard. Leaves crumbs I don't clean up.
Another buzz. Another DM.
Mystery Man 2: Would you like a chance to turn your life around?
"Seriously? The same guy?"
I don't even respond this time. Just block. Just move on. Harrasment is a new low, even for these scammer-esque people.
It's 11:19 AM now. On the 17th of April. I'm on holiday. The world is mine, apparently.
And yet here I am, crawling back into my room, booting up an old laptop with dust in the keyboard. Fingers on keys. Not writing anything that matters. Not doing anything that changes the world.
Just… existing. A flickering cursor on an empty screen.
A passing name in other people's minds. The kind that often gets forgotten and left in the pile of 7 billion humans.
I shut the laptop.
The room feels even smaller now. The walls seem closer, the air heavier. Maybe I need to leave. Just for a bit. It's all so... Suffocating.
I throw on some shoes—don't even tie the laces. Hoodie up. Head down. I don't like my hair, it looks effortless, in a bad way.
Outside, the street is overcast. The sky can't make up its mind. It's the kind of grey that makes everything feel like it's been paused. The wind tastes like scratchiness to my skin. The burning heat in my face, it's not reassuring, it's almost torturous.
I walk without a destination, just tracing the same loops around the neighborhood like a broken record. Past the park. Past the convenience store with flickering lights. Past the alley I always avoid. I end up picking up some sweets on the way, the flavour is artifical but the joy is real, even if it's momentary, damaging and costly.
Eventually, I reach the underpass near the canal. A few students are loitering near the benches, cheap cider in hand, clothes in disarray even on holiday. I recognize them. Too well.
Liam. Jay. Reece. And Dani. All from school. Loud, outspoken and with a hobby of picking on silent students minding their own business.
"Wait-." I groan, the moment I walk by, they've already decided we're going to interact.
I slow down. Too late. They've already seen me.
"Yo," Liam calls out. His voice cuts through the quiet like a dull knife. "Henry, right? From school?"
I nod stiffly. Keep walking. Headphones in—no music.
Jay laughs, smiling as always. "Man, ain't you from that road? Same street as Tess? Near the Tesco Express with the white fences?"
I keep walking, so what if they know where i live.
Reece steps onto the path in front of me. "Hold up. You got a minute?" He's tall, but most importantly he's large. He probably takes steroids... He probably could crush my skull.
Dani's leaning against the wall, chewing gum, watching me like a cat watches a cornered bird.
"What?" I ask, voice dry, cautious. "Do you need something?"
"Just need a little help, bro," Reece says. "Bit of money. Bus fare, food, whatever. You got it. You know life be hard for us... And you seem like the kind of guy who doesn't go out and spend much."
"I don't," I lie. "My pockets are empty."
"Then what's that?" Dani points at the wallet in my hand. "Ha. This guy's thought he was smart with that one."
I freeze. Realizing I've been too absentminded, that my words are coming back to bite me.
A second too long.
Jay grins. "You just lied to our faces. That's very rude. We might need some reperations."
"I-I said no," I reply, backing away slightly. My voice sounds too quiet, too fraigle. It always does when I'm about to fall apart.
Liam steps forward. "Nah, nah. You lied. To our FACES. You should know we aren't people you can just do that to."
I feel it before I fully see it—the shift in their weight, the way they all start to close in, not running, not yet, but their intentions are sharp.
I turn.
And run.
Their footsteps follow, echoing in the underpass, getting louder.
"Henry!" The words are twisted, warped, aimed for my head.
I don't look back.
Not until I hear one of them shout—
"Take his phone too! Let's record this, it'll be good."
Then I see the road ahead, the corner I can cut across into the woods.
But the path is slick.
And someone's catching up.