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It's a bright afternoon.
We view the room of twenty-one-year-old Angel. The room looks a bit worse than the average twenty-one-year-old guy's room. A mess. Clothes were everywhere; they were mostly black. He lay in his bed unconscious with four, miss-matched blankets on top of him—clothes surrounding his limp-looking body being swallowed by his mattress.
His face is being lit by the sun. A subtle, amber glow caresses his light brown face as he lets out soft snores from his deep slumber.
Now it's night.
Angel is no longer sleeping.
We watch as his eyes are fixated on the ceiling. He looks as if he's paralyzed. His eyes with a slightly glossy film from feeling tears well up, for his body wanted to cry—to just do something.
But it couldn't.
Angel remained in a still, vegetative state. To an unfocused eyes, it might look as if he wasn't breathing.
He doesn't do anything. He just continues to stare at the ceiling.
It's still night.
Angel's room was still engulfed in darkness except for the moonlight that shone through his windows, sheathed by thin, almost see-through curtains.
We spot Angel by his desk. On it, there lay a bunch of miscellaneous items: scales, baggies, junk food wrappers, water bottles, some empty and some not, as well as a couple of pill bottles with no labels on them.
We eye him as he crushes up a pill with the back of some scissors. We look at his face, seeing his eyes. They're sunken in. His pupils are dilated. He looks as if he hasn't slept for days. Like, time didn't exist, as if he just lived life in a blur.
His knees are bouncing up and down from the withdrawals while he sniffles before he snorts the blue substance, slouching in his chair when the high finally sets in.
Now it's dawn.
Angel is still awake.
He's lying on his back, his eyes still fluttering, wanting to go to sleep, but he won't let himself.
His eyes are affixed to the ceiling.
He's always looking up at it, in an unmoving position, his eyes locked on the space above him.
"Angel!" he heard his name being called. We see up close as Angel is only able to rotate his eyeballs from the ceiling to his bedroom door.
He attempted to respond and call out to the person who was separated from him by the door, but as he tried to speak, it was silent. He could only barely get his lips open to even form words.
He tried and tried, but his mouth wouldn't move; his body slightly jerked like he was possessed from his attempt. Angel felt as if something had a hold on his body from the inside. Almost as if he was a prisoner in his own body.
