Shadow and Light

The Awakening

I drew back the curtains after four days, a symbolic act that promised renewal but delivered only regret. Sunlight invaded my room, exposing its transformation from a sanctuary to a disheveled mess. The once-protective covers now lay in a heap, and the once-clean floor hosted a chaotic assortment of books, bags, a glass, and an empty Bordeaux bottle.

Navigating the maze of scattered clothes, a throbbing pain pulsed in my head. The dirty floor clung to my bare feet, discouragement mounting with each step. I approached the bathroom, bracing myself for the reflection in the mirror—a confrontation with my perceived inadequacy. My wine-stained lips, shadowed eyes, and lost cheekbone definition greeted me, a tired smile failing to disguise the weariness.

Ice-cold water splashed on my face, a feeble attempt to wash away the weight. Amidst makeup clutter on the dark marble sink, a red cardboard box stood out—a stark contrast to the chaos.

Dr. Janaína's prescribed medication, a prelude to the impending chaos, sat on the marble—a silent testament to guilt and shame. Three months of facing that red box, a symbol of helplessness.

Now, with nothing left to lose, I tore the lid off, swallowed the red pill, and waited for whatever awaited beyond its influence.