A Cloud in Heaven

Part 1

        The thunder had stopped, clouds now held only a shell of former fury as they faded from sight and mind. Dark gray turned to more subtle shades of white as they slipped beyond the pale blue of the morning sky, leaving behind a hazy mist. He laid in his bed staring out the window, noticing the soft light of day casting a faint glow over the world. Reality was awakening from its slumber in golden opulence, drying itself in the birth of the new dawn. Even as the cold of the autumn air was dampened by the incoming light he felt no need to move and face the warming world beyond his frozen bed. His lethargy shackled him to his sheets. He was doomed to suffer the silence of his empty apartment. He managed to raise his head to a slight angle from his pillow to peer around the shadow filled room. The sun's rays cast a long, square beam across the dusty carpet, revealing nothing but empty shelves and filled boxes. The white walls were devoid of character, of his personality, of any semblance of life. If he disappeared, consumed by the void and suffocated into oblivion, no trace of him would be found. He left no mark of who he is or ever was, just another person to exist and fade. He again rested his head back against the pillow. With a sigh of exasperation, he felt the need to at least try. He felt the need to maybe make the effort to rise from his stark tomb and move. Was it for a purpose? Did something actually drive him? He did not know the answer to that himself. Maybe it was the routine, the drive of pattern and the purpose of normalcy. He brought himself to stand up at long last and move in the familiar tract of his day. He did not bother grooming himself, leaving his hair in a matted mess. He found his clothes from the day prior strewn across the floor beside his feet. Flinging them on without a care, he made his out from his tomb to the open square that was the rest of his apartment. It was small and not cozy, but cramped. A living room, dining area, and kitchen compacted together to make the most of the abysmally small floor plan, with a benign tumor of a bedroom and bath hanging off the side. In the center sat his old, raggedy couch facing the slim, cracked television situated on an old box labeled Mom's things. The carpet of the "living room" gave way to the old, scratched linoleum of the kitchen. Cracked tile and faux wood counters were strewn with empty take out containers with a broken, discolored fridge rounding out the depressing portrait. He made his way to the tattered, carpeted surface of the sofa and fell onto it with a thud. Propping his neck upon the arm of the couch, he once more stared at the flaking ceiling tiles, falling into the same trap. The living room was his crypt now with the pattern repeated once more. He pulled his smart phone from the pocket of his wrinkled pants revealing the heavily scratched, cracked square strewn with the wear of years of use and abuse. His finger flicked upon the shattered glass to illuminate the barely functioning device, reviving it from its catatonic state. 1 message from Mom received at 8:00 a.m, the screen read. It was the usual message he received at the start of his day, the same text that is always present when his eyes open, a constant in his routine of oblivion. It always began with a hello, followed by the same question, "How are you sweetie?" He responded in the same fashion as always:

        Allen: Hi Mom, I'm fine, like always.

        A response, like lightning across a frantic sky, immediately followed his message.

        Mom: Allen, you always say that. What's wrong?

        Allen: Nothing mom, just another day.

        Mom: How did you sleep? Is the old mattress still fine? Is that why you're upset?

        Allen: No mom, its fine, everything is just fine, ok?

        Mom: Ok sweetie, I just worry.

        Allen: Don't worry, you're not supposed to worry anymore. Everything here is fine. Just enjoy yourself.