[First Draft] Unresolved (New Chapters Daily)

Part Two

I woke with a dull ache piercing through my temples, the remnants of a restless night echoing in my mind as I sat up, attempting to find some relief. Rubbing my eyes, I felt the familiar heaviness of sleep still clinging to me, a ghost of my former self. I released my hair from its tie, running my fingers through the tangled strands, only to catch on the small knots that tugged painfully at my scalp, amplifying the throb in my head.

Checking the time, I was shocked to see it was almost noon; half the day had slipped away unnoticed. Usually, this kind of late start wouldn't bother me, but now, as I tried to adjust to a new routine, it felt like an insurmountable obstacle. Maybe my habits were too deeply ingrained to change, and the thought was disheartening.

Yesterday's eyeliner had fused itself to my lashes, forming clumps that broke off in desperation as I rubbed my eyes. Any motivation I might have had to clean up the remnants of my chaotic life was long gone; the idea of tackling my mess felt exhausting, and it lingered in the back of my mind like a persistent guilt.

Pulling the covers off, I squinted against the light streaming in through the window and drew back the curtains to reveal the overgrown bushes that loomed outside. A sparrow flitted about, pecking at the poisonous berries that hung from the branches, oblivious to the danger. I allowed myself to linger there for a few moments, watching the small creature, admiring the dark speckles on its back until it suddenly spotted me and darted off, disappearing from view. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
Turning away, I reached over to the bedside table for the paracetamol I usually kept on hand — a staple for frequent hangovers but versatile enough to tackle my current state of malaise. Whether it worked as a placebo or a genuine remedy, I'd learned it could fix many things, if only temporarily. After running a brush through my hair, I made a decision right then: I would start on my weekend job applications. Thankfully, my rent was subsidized, but my lifestyle had taken a toll, and I was desperate to break the cycle of isolation that had wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket. Staying home for days on end wasn't healthy; it was a thought that echoed in my mind as I padded over to my laptop. Settling back onto my bed, I turned it on, greeted by the familiar sight of my background. The image of Minxy, my long-passed cat, filled the screen. The sight of her fluffy ears and bright eyes stung more than my headache.

The world felt emptier without her. I knew she was just a cat, but Minxy had given me something to live for. I couldn't stay in bed all day because she would need feeding, and I would have to change her litter. She would be waiting for me when I got home, her little body curling around my legs as if to remind me I wasn't alone. Now, I missed the chaos she would bring, the crashes and the tiny disasters that were so characteristic of her mischievous spirit. I looked down at the scratched leg of my bed, a makeshift scratching post that she had claimed as her own, and a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Each mark held a memory, a reminder of the life we had shared. The comfort she provided, the simple companionship — all of it was gone, leaving behind an emptiness that echoed through my days.

With a sigh, I shook my head, trying to dispel the fog that clouded my thoughts. I needed to move forward, to push past the weight of loss that clung to me like a shadow. Focusing on the screen, I took a deep breath, determined to fill the void with purpose, even if it felt daunting. It was time to reclaim my life, to take those small steps toward something brighter.
As I clicked on the job listings, the dull ache in my temples faded into the background, replaced by a flicker of hope. I would find a way to navigate this new reality, one application at a time. 

 I settled on a few bar jobs, each promising the same predictable rhythm of pouring drinks and making small talk and made a mental note to take the first offer that came my way — if one ever did. The hope that something would materialise flickered in the back of my mind, though it felt as fragile as a soap bubble. In the meantime, I copied and pasted my minimum-effort CV to the university library and a local theatre concession stand, both a last resort and a desperate grasp for any semblance of stability. I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the thought; I hoped it wouldn't have to come to working at the theatre, serving popcorn and nachos to oblivious and stuck-up playgoers, but I knew I'd likely take it if I needed to. Just a couple of nights a week to keep cash flowing so that it could go right back out — it felt like an endless cycle I was already too familiar with. As I stared at the screen, a nagging thought wormed its way into my mind: Was taking an art history course even worth it? Sure, I was drawn to the beauty and complexity of art, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it would amount to little in terms of employability.