𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐄𝐃

03. despondency.

a/n; horrifically i find that it's been 4 months... but nevertheless this chapter is relatively long, so feast! remember to comment along the way, it will always motivate me a great deal (and hopefully the next chapter won't take too long to update)

another warning; [name] REALLY is a huge asshole

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EVENINGS WERE DULL AND PUNCTUATED WITH NAPS so deep it took Alyssa's whines to drag you out of it. You would wake up, confused, disorientated, tasting the dry saliva in your mouth. The TV would be turned on and some random show would be playing, with Alyssa complaining constantly about the "jutting out of bones," of the female actress, the "sinfully handsome" gay male model slash actor that she insisted you knew (like every gay man in the world knew each other) and you would fall right back asleep just from listening to her voice.

Your notes were messy from that singular meeting with your Professor. On it you had scrawled, in unintelligible letters—Monday, eight in the morning. And now it was Tuesday, and you still had yet to see him. You didn't mean to miss it—you had placed hundreds of alarms but none of that had rung. Or perhaps they did, and you had slept through it. After all, you were used to sleeping through noise. Sounds. Voices.

"You should really get your life in order."

You watched as Alyssa thumbed through another magazine, her eyes greedily looking at the purses and the clothes and the fashion belts. "You're sick, [Name]."

"I was going to see my Professor."

"Today?"

"Yesterday," you replied honestly. "I didn't see him in the end."

Alyssa looked at you disapprovingly. "I think it's imperative you make a change. Your life is crashing down, but really, you have so much potential. You can do so well. You do know how lucky you are, don't you? You have the money to buy your cars, your suits, whatever cards you want to get."

"Sleeping is like saving, don't you think?" You leaned back on the couch. You hadn't made it to your bed, and at times you collapsed on the wooden floor. Sleeping on floors were good on backs, you reassured yourself, you were being productive. "I won't be awake to spend the money."

Alyssa wrinkled her nose. "Can you quit it with that kind of talk?"

"What kind of talk?"

"The depressing talk."

"It's not depressing," you sighed heavily, hoping Alyssa would get the hint and scramble away. "I'm just sad. Upset, actually. Those aren't the same. I'm frustrated."

You attempted to sit up. You succeeded, and tried to make out what the TV screen was showing. The laundry service as well as the cleaning service had come, it was apparent, as your apartment was spotless and clean. Even the opened bottles of medicine—("medicine, Alyssa, not drugs," you had to specify. Specify, because she was clearly acting like a child)—had been closed dutifully.

"No, I'm worried, [Name]," Alyssa grabbed you with urgency, "you're spiraling."

You wobbled on your feet. "What?"

"See, you've slurring your words! Let me help you," Alyssa begged you. "Please."

Dear, dear Alyssa. What a needy bitch. You hated her—she was so useless to you. All you could hear were the words in your ear buzzing at you like an annoying little bee.