Threefold

2| her

My night was unquestionably horrible.

I can't begin to explain how strenuously difficult it was trying to sleep. Throughout the entire night, my mind couldn't seem to discover a subject grave enough to lure me into sleep. I thought I had convinced myself to start a new chapter in this insignificant life I'm living, but during the night, I'm dealt with denial that I can't. Incessant denial.

I'm unable to dump my twin brother in the brig, unlike what he has clearly done to me. I come to an agreement with myself that I'll just have to endure the pain and remain sulking in despair for the rest of my existence.

When I wake, my eyes are not desperate to open, because internally, I have no purpose to open them. I can think of a million reasons why I should, would, and could continue resting in my bed, but an irksome nerve in me is mandating that I get up.

Get the hell up, Cameron, it demands.

I battle with myself on whether I should be productive or not. Should I diligently strive for a new life and force happiness? Or should I just... I don't know? Fake it? Can I pretend to be normal?

I take a piss and commence brushing my teeth. Afterwards, I blankly bore into the distorted glass mirror at an empty man. I contemplate whether I am to cut my auburn facial hair down a bit before it becomes a legitimate beard. It has been merely three weeks since I've trimmed it, but I only trimmed it because I was a confident man. Dauntless and bumptious. I was noble and took pride in life. However, when Ian expressed that he was leaving (three weeks ago), I lost my way.

And my facial hair went cuckoo.

Now all I can do is overthink.

But, it's settled. I'm not trimming it. I've lost my way and don't plan on finding it. I'll be a new person with a new appearance.

In the midst of my personal debate, I suddenly hearken a knock at the door, and automatically, assume it is Ian trekking back. Though, once I answer the intruding knock, I'm mindful that I'm wrong and will continue to be wrong if I remain depending on a lost hope.

"This is for you." The man stands about five feet tall in an uncomfortable shirt, handing me a white envelope with a slight mood of indignation. This causes me to snicker, because the guy looks like his day just can't get any worse.

"You having a shitty day?" I purposely wisecrack whilst taking the letter given to me. I'm in the same lane he's in.

"You will be, too, in just a moment."

My face twists in offense. He rapidly tries to dismiss himself, but I stop him in his tracks. I will be, too, in just a moment? What is that? A threat? "Who's this letter from?" I ask, folding the envelope in half. Usually my mail is not delivered by a knock on the door. I'm familiar with getting my mail from the P.O. boxes downstairs, not by a zwerg.

"It's from the landlord."

As he vanishes into the elevator, Mrs. Woodsworth, my nosy neighbor across the hall, is wide-eyed and gawking at me because, unintentionally, I forgot to put on a shirt this morning. She's about sixty or seventy, but she knows when she sees a good looking guy. She even tries to flatter me with her superb dishes and flamboyant hairstyles.

Mrs. Woodsworth is a really nice lady, but I wish she'd stay out of my damn business sometimes.

"Guten morgen, Mrs. Woodsworth," I shout while shutting the door before I hear her entire response.

"Oh, good morning, Ca-."

Again, I must say, it is not intentional to be rude to her. I have respect for the elderly, but Mrs. Woodsworth considers herself to be twenty-seven, not sixty-seven.