routine
Routine is my drug,
A pattern for my day.
Story Untitled
The sound of a fly buzzing in my ear wakes me and, for a moment, I wonder if it was merely a dream. Those moments distorted are more like dreams. My eyes open to the boy standing over me: his eyes wide as if he is waiting for me to wake. The fan rotates just enough to make noise, the faucet in the bathroom drips in alternating patterns, and the rain outside blends with these to create a symphony of torture. I look around the room, standing slowly as to avoid a headache; I wonder what waits for me in death. The boy, a mere pawn in this story, walks toward the door without speaking a word. I assume that he has no need to speak, or that he cannot speak. He, Andrew as I have decided to call him, walks through the door into the wet cold. I follow Andrew: what else do I have to do? We walk down the steps toward a bus, a long grey bus, as a man in a cowboy hat steps down. He has a grin that makes me shudder and a walk that makes me wonder about what he’s been through. The tall man ...
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