You’re sitting on your mattress, which in a recent development, has been moved off of the headboard and onto the floor. Did you move it? You think you shake your head in an attempt to confirm you did not for your own record. Your back is against the wall, your feet stretched in front of you and as you look down you realize you’re clutching an empty drinking glass. Your tongue tastes funny, like plaque and aspartame and you slowly blink. The lights in your studio apartment are off. Soft yellow lighting filters into the room, which is nice. Gentle on your strained eyes. You think, I am so glad to be sitting in this quasi-darkness right now, and wonder why you’re using “quasi” in your inner thoughts and you loll your head so you can feel the wall. It’s quiet except for the occasional drip of the faucet. This drip, inconveniently, is driving you insane. You don’t want to turn the faucet off, to even attempt to get to the kitchen. You aren’t even sure if you’re capable of movement at the moment and you don’t know why, and so this faucet is quickly becoming the bane of your current existence. 

You groan inwardly and silently. You attempt to move your arms, maybe boost yourself up, but you are suddenly reminded why you cannot when your right arm spasms and the drinking glass clatters to the floor, shattering into large and pathetic pieces. You gaze upon it. The sun continues to set and the room begins to grow cold. You notice the hairs on your arm at your side standing up and are enamored with the goose-pimpled flesh. You want to run your fingers along it and are saddened when you cannot. You attempt to make your move again, this time propelling yourself forward and landing on all fours. Pain shoots through your wrists but you don’t notice. You crawl around the pieces of glass and drag yourself to your kitchen sink. You sit on the stick-on tile in the kitchen for a while, forgetting what you wanted in there in the first place. 

Your eyelids feel funny. Oh, you think, suddenly amused. Tea. You wanted tea. No, that’s not right. The fucking faucet, you’re reminded and suddenly the faucet dripping is exponentially louder. It’s like the faucet is dripping in your skull. With each tinny drip you feel your face slide into a grimace. You accept that you will not be fixing this problem. You find your own momentary incompetence endearing. A short and profound chest spasm knocks you out of said endearment and you pitch forward, barely sliding your hand up to brace your topple. You stare at the crumbs and loose hairs that litter the floor. Your eyes wander. You see the glass again. The light has shifted so that it is bathed in an orange glow. The room is brighter than it has been all day, it seems, and you are truly in awe. The sunset passes quickly, or maybe it has been going on for sometime, when you hear yourself cry out in pain: A scream that is so dripping with biblical levels of agony that you are amazed it came from your mouth. You realize something is thudding in your chest and you feel that thing slow. You wonder why you’re feeling this way, and you’re wondering what was in the drinking glass that was once whole. You wonder what time it is, you wonder what made you come to. Were you asleep or unconscious? You notice a pair of shoes by the mattress and cannot recall if they’re yours. You find you cannot bring yourself to care about either of these things. 

You attempt to make one more move to the bathroom. This is a long trek, the ultimate journey. You feel a sense of finality, a sense that the end is near. Your day is almost over. Your sweater sleeves snag on the floor and it is at this time you understand that you are not wearing pants. You crawl slowly with many breaks. Your knees are uncomfortable on the wood floors, and you think about what bruises may appear. 

You claw at the bathroom door frame, pulling yourself up to your knees. Grappling onto the bathroom sink, it takes great strength to pull yourself up. You feel your knees buckle and your vision blacks out and you remain in that half-standing, half-kneeling state until most of your vision returns. You reach out to touch your face in the mirror, recoiling when your fingers hit the glass too hard. You tentatively open your medicine cabinet, eyes fluttering shut as you attempt to squint them. The medicine cabinet is open. There is a missing space where your Quaaludes normally are. 

This alerts you. Those were vintage! It had taken forever to find someone to sell you real Quaaludes consistently. You wanted whatever Courtney from American Psycho was on and you had gotten them and now they’re gone so what have you done? Your eyes widen, or maybe they don’t, as you begin to fully understand what you must have done in whatever haze possessed you. You accept it. I mean, you’re the one that did this to yourself so certainly you cannot be that upset. There’s nobody to blame. Maybe those shoes by your mattress were yours. Your legs give and you land with a thud on the floor. Not a single grunt of exertion passes your lips and you fear one never will again. You're slouching. You think about how your grandmother hated when you slouched. You try to sit up straight. Better. You have not actually changed your positioning at all. Your eyelids flutter one last time before closing completely and a faint and coquettish smile crosses your face. The apartment is now completely dark. You relish in how nice this is as your body slumps onto the cool tile floor, hair splayed around you in a halo. You think of the broken glass. You think of how you are slumped in a way that is like that broken glass. You are abstract, you are in large pieces. Your breathing slows and your heart heaves determinedly one last time. You drift off with that same smile on your face.