Rest

I exist. I can feel the floor through the clothes on my back, feel my chest rise and fall. The ceiling is white. Bare, save for the fan. I watch it rotate. Count its cycles. I blink.

The bed is next to me. The duvet brushes my arm. I washed it, last week; I should wash it again. I am squeezed into the nook where my bed does not quite meet the wall, lying down in that small space. It is silent here. My world is contained here, in this pocket. Two by three by six. My feet stick out over the edge. They are cold. A draft settles over the room.

I stare, pass my eyes over the cracks in the ceiling, the lone smoke detector. Stare into the lights until I see their imprint, burned into the backs of my eyelids. The afterimages follow my gaze, stark against the empty ceiling. I close my eyes, drift off to sleep.