13
Remy
Depression doesn’t care if you have an important psych exam or an essay due tomorrow. It doesn’t care if you promised to go to the gym with your best friend. It’ll tell you to bail because you can’t drag yourself out of bed. When you try to fight back by scheduling an emergency session with your therapist, it laughs in your face by reminding you she's booked until Monday.
Depression is a parasite. It gorges on beauty and happiness, leaving you an emaciated, empty husk.
My eyes ache from tracing the textured ceiling between the blades of the fan. Throwing an arm over my face, I’m hit with the pungent odor of sweat. I grimace.
When was the last time I showered?
With a groan, I hoist my sluggish body upright. The room spins. Shit, I need to eat too. An annoyed meow sounds from the kitchen. Even Mitz is over my brain.
“Alright, alright, you needy gremlin,” I grumble, shuffling to the bathroom at the pace of a sloth crossbred with a slug.
Just one task at a time.
Shampoo and condition my hair.
Scrub my skin raw.
Brush my teeth.
Shave.
Put on clean clothes.
Feed Mitz.
I’m opening my laptop, preparing to stare at a blank document until I miraculously develop the motivation to write a behavior analysis when a knock at the door startles me.
Andrea said we could go to kickboxing tomorrow. Who the fuck is here?
Another impatient knock.
“I know you’re in there,” a familiar, irritating voice barks.
Cold dread settles in my stomach.
The idiotic agreement I made two days ago comes rushing back. I haven’t left the apartment. Haven’t even opened the blinds. The black hole in my mind has prevented me from facing the consequences of my actions.
Massaging my tired eyes, I slide off the barstool I’ve been perched on for a whole three minutes and heave the door open—
My breath catches.
Grey eyes shadowed by inky strands sweep me from head to toe before locking onto mine. His unbothered visage falters. Miniscule cues give him away: the tension in his shoulders stretching his white tee taut, the delicate flare of his nostrils, and the veins bulging in his forearms.
He'spissed.
I glare at him expectantly.
He says nothing.
This is exhausting.
“What do you want, Win?”
“You haven’t installed your doorbell.”
