MOSAIC

Chapter 1: Keys

I kept my stinging eyes fixed on the ceiling and listened to the soft pattering of rain on the roof. It was a welcome relief from the torrential downpour that had come down the previous evening, an incessant wail of a storm howling for hours in the darkness, at last warded off by the onset of crawling grey daylight. It was the dawn of another bleak day calmly rising up from the depths of a cold late-summer night, an early indicator of a fast-approaching autumn.

Dim morning light swam sloppily through my large un-curtained window, cascading the room in a sallow greyish glow. It gave the featureless space a mild atmosphere, washing over everything with its colourless tranquillity. The entire world seemed depressingly calm and impassive today, lifeless droplets of water drizzling down from a sky that was too tired to hold itself up any longer.

A wet wind murmured outside as it streaked itself across the window, its rustling both soothing and aggravating me. I'd been awake all night, my pillow hot and my sheets furrowed from all the tossing and writhing I'd done, and it was only now that my eyelids were starting to feel heavy and my body settling into a state of drained relaxation. I already knew how this morning was about to unfold. These post all-nighters were becoming increasingly familiar. In a few moments I'd be cranking my body out of bed and experiencing those first few minutes of exhaustion-induced instability which would quickly transform into a crushing headache as the day dragged along.

I could've probably just stayed in bed a little while longer and allowed myself to enter the morbid daytime sleep I know all too well if I wanted to, but there's no point. The gnawing in my head typically won't allow it. Besides, I hate wasting my days off with sleeping, no matter how tired I am. I always feel a relentless need to stay awake because there just never seems to be enough leeway in terms of time anymore. That's all I ever do now, is keep time. I always feel the need to know what the fucking time is, and how much I've got. It's a ceaseless cycle of calculative time-keeping and deadlining. I can't remember at what point in my life time suddenly became so important.

I gingerly shut my burning eyes, remaining motionless for a few more seconds before slowly cleaving them open again to glare at my ceiling. Rolling to my side, I furiously kicked the blanket off my body, letting it flop onto the floor in a heavy, crumpled mass. The coldness of the room quickly began to slide over my bare physique, tickling me with its uncomfortable chill. I wrenched myself up to a sitting position at the foot of my bed and put my face in my hands. After groaning and mumbling to myself for a minute I took a drowsy glance around my tasteless bedroom. Bland. I'd stripped the place of most things as of recent.

My desk was only thing that stood out amid the flavourless textures of the space. It wasn't actually much of a desk, but more of a large foldable table. Atop it was a volcanic eruption of papers and various artistic utensils which I use primarily for drawings and sketches, although my artistic fervour has been waning as of recent. I've been drawing a lot of shit, but nothing I draw is coming out as I intend it to.

I heaved myself to a standing position −my aching body protesting the forced action− and sluggishly ambled my way towards the bathroom. My sweatpants were still hung up on the doorknob where I'd left them the previous night and I stumbled around a little bit in my effort to get them on. Upon being half-dressed I left the room and quietly kneed open the bathroom door, positioning myself in front of the small mirror mounted above the sink. I didn't bother flicking on the light because the greyness of early morning daylight coming in through the open door was enough for me. Artificial light would probably just magnify the pulsations of my exhaustion-induced headache.