Broken

Chapter 1

Mark lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his head empty of thought. His eyes remained fixed on a small spot on the popcorn painting that looked rather like it had been burned into the paint. His drapes were drawn, only letting in filtered and darkened spring afternoon light. He'd been lying there for hours, and hadn't moved since he had woken up. His eyes had opened, he had looked up at the ceiling, he had seen the spot, and then his brain had shut off, as if someone in his skull had just flipped a switch and turned off all thought.

He stayed like that until five o'clock, when what sounded like a gunshot in the apartment above him snapped his mind back into action, making him jump out of his bed. He stood there for a second, wearing only his underwear, before stumbling backwards and sitting heavily on his bed, all the blood having been drawn from his head during his rapid leap. He breathed deeply for a moment, looking around his room, rubbing his eyes. 

His room was rather small. His apartment was rather small in general, composed of three  rooms--the living space, which combined kitchen with living room in a claustrophobic, uncomfortable way, his bedroom, which was no bigger than a walk-in closet, and his bathroom, which was about as small as a bathroom could be--a small toilet, a square standing shower right next to it, and a sink less than two feet from the shower.

His bedroom itself was rather basic, as was his apartment. He had a small bed with grey sheets and black blankets, a small fan that rested on top of his bookshelf--which was filled with books that were yellowed with age--and a few posters that hung on his walls in arbitrary places, depicting comic books and movies that he liked.

His head no longer buzzing with lack of blood, Sam stood and walked out into his cramped living room.

His kitchen was composed of a stove and oven combination, a microwave, a small sink that was filled with dirty dishes, and a fridge that constantly hummed at a maddening frequency. His living room was quite simply a couch and a television. The T.V. rested on top of another bookshelf, this one filled with DVDs. In one corner of the room, next to the door that led into the apartment's hallway, a small cupboard sat. The walls in this room were bare, save for a small painting of a patch of woods in autumn.

Sam walked to the cupboard and pulled its door open, rooting through the clothes that were piled there and the shirts that were hung up, pulling out a random outfit. Graphic tee, jeans, and grey socks today. He didn't care very much about how he looked, he didn't plan to leave the apartment anyways. He pulled on the clothing and stepped into the bathroom, quickly brushing his teeth and styling his hair--he liked to do a messy side part--before walking back out into the living space and sitting on the couch.

He noticed his phone sitting on the armrest--he must have left it there the night before, which, he found, he could hardly remember--and picked it up, absentmindedly opening it, surprised to see a voicemail. He didn't text very often, not even to his friends or family, and so any notifications always surprised him. He turned on the television and flipped it to some random channel as he played the voicemail.

"Sam, what the hell are you doing? Where are you? If you do a no call no show again I swear to god I'm gonna fire your ass. You better come in today or else."

Sam's heart pounded as the message finished. Was he supposed to work today? He opened his photo gallery and scrolled to the schedule--crap! There it was, he was supposed to have worked a 12-5 today! He frantically called the store, trying to figure out what to say, panicking--he hated calling people in general, but now he had to call and beg for his job.

"The café on the square, how can I help you today?"

"Hey! It's Sam! Can I speak to Gregg please?"