7am

It is 7am.
I lie, shuddering, in what is supposed to be a comforting bed
The cat is sleeping at my feet and shifts slightly at the start.
I hope he's still awake.
I leave, faltering steps down a dark hallway as I grope for a familiar door.
Safety, I hope he's still awake.
Silence.
I try to wake him but my voice wavers and I call twice
He is asleep, fast asleep. I envy him.
Then the thought flickers across my mind
what if he's dead?
Don't be foolish. It's not possible, he's sleeping.
The thought flickers.
I sit.
Searching blindly in the dark for my toxic reprieve.
Papers, tobacco, the clang of a small metal box, filters.
My hands shake as the first paper creases and I scrunch it up and throw it away
The thought flickers.
I wish he was awake.
It works this time, I roll a perfect cigarette. At least, I think.
It's dark.
I stumble out, looking for fire.
I flick a light on in the hallway to find one.
I can't bring myself to turn it off again, I know I should
It's too dark.

Outside is brighter, the street lights glow and building that are dark and bathed with light
Cars tear past. Going to stable lives and stable jobs.
They've just woken up. I wish he would wake up.
The thought flickers, I flick the end of my cigarette.
And old, useless habit.
It's 7am. The world is lighting up and so am I.
My hands won't hold the lighter steady
I curse under my breathe.
It's quiet.
The light flickers but I fail.
It flickers
And flickers until
A spark.
I inhale a breathe and begin to feel real again.
The fumes fill my lounges and I breathe out. A sigh of relief or resentment, I don't know.
It seems to loud for this waking world.
It's quiet.
There's letters in the mailbox that weren't there an hour ago.
I wish I hadn't gone to sleep then.
He was still awake then.
It was less quiet.

A steady breathe of smoke leaves my lips.
The last before I retreat again.
It's cold. I hope that's the reason I'm shaking
It's not.
I hurry back inside away from the growing light.
Back into the darkness.
The light I left on glows dimly at the end of the hallway.
The door is too loud when it closes.
I hope I haven't woken him,
It is, after all, 7am.

I turn of the light and the house is bathed in darkness once more.
As I enter my room. I look again at my bed with loathing
I suppose everyone sleeps sometime
The cat awakes with a start as I disturb him and lashes out at me with claws.
Then shakes it off.
It makes me laugh, then feel like crying all over again.
Its 7am and he's too sleepy to stay awake.
I wish I was like him.

So I write.
The world seems less dark here.
Funny how words make me feel real again,
When so much of it is fiction.
Perhaps it's because in stories the hero's never sleep.
Or eat, or bathe, or do anything Other than slaughtering their enemies.
Which makes me feel worse.
I wish he was awake.
It's quite here
It's cold
And dark.
At 7am.