I hate the alarm clock.
With a vengeance.
It unceremoniously wakes me up in the morning, and doesn’t care that it took me forever to fall asleep, or that I have been negotiating how many hours of sleep are really necessary to perform the many menial jobs that await.
I don’t bother with the snooze button. I do consider the possibility of calling in sick. Or dying. Or just getting in the car and driving away, never looking back. But it’s juvenile and self-indulgent, and I can’t afford to be either. Disoriented, I drag myself into the bathroom and for a moment, gaze into the eyes of the stranger in the mirror.
As I shower, my mind meanders through the many alternate lives I often create for myself. I’m a painter, a writer or a socialite having brunch with my obnoxiously wealthy friends. And my very rich imagination, the traitor, is so detailed and fantastic that it’s physically painful to dry up and get dressed.
Today, however, my brain went into uncharted territory. I see myself lying on the floor, looking at the leg of a kitchen table, white and peeling. The pain is unbearable, and my hair is matted with blood. I listen for footsteps in the hallway, close my eyes feigning death and wonder if the baby is ok. I hear the kitchen door open and when I’m certain that the brute that beat me senseless has left, I force myself to sit up, while thick warm tears streak my cheeks.
And then, my day doesn’t seem so bad.