𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗔𝗚𝗘

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 - MONDAYS

I knew from the very start of the day, I wouldn't be too fond of how the sun rose and set.

Mondays are typically described as dreadful and I can fully agree with that. I infer it's mostly from my restless schedule that interferes with my sleep. With the amount of work I'm given to do as a student, they (as in my teachers) shouldn't complain if I'm late to class for sleeping in — some assignments aren't turned in until midnight, and who's fault is that for giving me so many papers to finish? Apparently mine, because I'm 'irresponsible' as my math teacher would phrase it. "It's because of your phones — your generation typically can't look away from their screens." She would add to my misery with scoffs and even more homework.

I'd like to say today was a Monday only of misery.

Thankfully lunch would normally free me from my awful dread and bring me comfort with the ability to speak with others and enjoy my food in peace — a moment to completely forget all the stress without being a technical form of procrastinating. I often start daydreaming about it in the period before; how school food isn't horrible, but it's definitely not the best and I avoid having to buy school lunch at all costs; the distasteful scent of fake foods made for people with gluten allergies was almost as appalling as its taste; the utterly filthy tables littered with different meals from previous students eating — too lazy to clean — stood far too close for anyones comfort on top of the squalid tiling.

However, because today is such a miserable Monday, I made the mistake of forgetting to pack lunch. So, even freedom was unpleasant. I sat with through the awful meal in a intolerable silence, only my pencil scratching at the white sheet of paper with smooth motions emit from where I sat. I remained like that for all of the lunch break, finishing assignments while eating distasteful meals in a humiliating loneliness.

Typical Mondays being so atrocious.

————

No matter how much I wished for today to go faster, it was anything but.

After my insufferable classes I'd head home, do whatever homework I could, then whatever chores I needed — and sometimes head into my part-time job. I have the life of a average teenager. I get okay grades, live relatively lonely, and am trying to get a drivers license. Nothing abnormal happens in my life and I'm truthfully not against it. I like consistency. I like when things go smooth.

"(Y/N)?"

I looked up from my bored daydreams, not bothering to fix my hunched posture from both tiredness and indifference. My eyes remained on the figure in the doorway of my bedroom where my mother stood. I noticed today she looked exceptionally tired, but I don't think I can blame her. The usual eye colour she often wore with a smile looked rather shaded and drained, almost like she hasn't seen light in days — the sun and happiness. She may think I can't see how exhausted she is, but I do, and very clearly. She works for the both of us, as a parent and nurse she's relied on by quite a lot of people.

"Yeah?" I responded with a wary undertone, I never liked when she looked stern, it often meant bad news. She gazed to me with a tired glint in her eyes, one that took away the jovial shine and replaced it with weary ripples. I couldn't read minds, but I could tell she was a little lost in her thoughts. "I wanted to say I'll be out tonight again." She swallowed with an apologetic hint in her averting eyes, she didn't look at me — for what? Fear? She was my mother and always will be, I can't change that so why does she act timid with me?

"Another night shift?" I responded rhetorically, already aware that she wasn't going to be home. I rennet taking a glance at the calendar before walking out this morning and in black ink it read, "7pm-7am" I did not need a further explanation to know what that means. I know the way mother likes the calendar to look and certain colours stand for different things — and from what I've observed, she doesn't normally have a pattern of days to work on.

Inconsistence is tough.

"Yeah, I'll be back when you leave for school." Remembering it was only the start of the weak I had a slight tick in my jaw to insinuate my hatred for the topic of school. "Tomorrow you also have a shift." She reminded, clearing her throat a little. I nodded slowly in affirmation, hoping this we'd would end quicker than it started. "Okay." I looked back to my desk, humming my words with a understanding voice. "I'll be in my room." She added quietly before turning on her heal and leaving me in the silence of my room, only my thoughts could keep me company.

Assignments make me feel like I'm attempting to claw open the satisfactory gates of heaven with a pencil — in other words, hell.

If my head doesn't hurt by the end of this, then my hand will — and if not that, my back will.

The endless assignments filled to the brim with questions that deteriorate my sanity made me wish there was some obscurity to my life — complete normalcy almost feels repulsive from how... cruel the world was to just a mere student. Maybe if I had actual hobbies like something in athletics I'd have a lot more entertaining things to do to distract myself with.

I felt like the lights in my room dimmed with my mood, everything seemed so exhausting and mundane. The sun hid itself behind shields of grey clouds, hiding from humanity with pity in its golden colour. The grey sky told everyone what exactly was to be expected, and that was rain. The scent of wet air drifted through every inhale and it wasn't much of a surprise that on a Monday it would rain. The ponderous colour of the sky made my eyes hang low almost as if I were to fall asleep. Almost.

Within seconds of my final conscious breaths a thought struck my mind from no where. This same solemn atmosphere a sat in resembled a deep navy colour that carried more then they were told to show. In a way, the gloom felt familiar — like I've seen it before. I've seen that shine in dark blue pools, hues shading with somber dimness instead of tinting with light and joy; sorrow and dejection of the past carrier with him in every step and breath; grief displayed on his unkept hair and posture.

I don't know why I thought back to him, a mere accidental shove led us to meet gazes for less then a few seconds — yet I still can't help but think it wasn't a mistake.

Perhaps, I wouldn't have forgotten him so easily.