It's dark, but the weight of morning is already upon me. It's hard to move. A familiar darkness overtakes the sliver of space between sleep and wake. It's time.
I regretfully pull myself up, unravel the bindings of sleep and drag myself toward the hall. I take an armful of wares and slink to the bathroom. The floor is cold and hard against the soles of my feet. A cracked tile shifts. Flakes of rubber from an old bath mat pepper the floor. A dank smell echos in the air. I close the door—silently turning the knob and engaging the lock.
Exhale. The house is still.
I reach for the light. Fluorescent bulbs blink to life and drench my skin in a blunt hue. My eyes sting. Dust particles hang in the air.
I rub sleep from my eyes and meet my reluctant gaze.