I Am You

Chapter One

I felt numb. Numb is good.

Each morning, I tried to understand the sensations that riddled my senses. It's easier to wake up when you don't sleep, just the way it's easier to leave when you never wanted to be there in the first place. I hadn't had a pinch of sleep in... I don't even know anymore. I tried hard to sleep.

'One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi...' the sound went on in the back of my head.

I knew I had failed when my alarm went off. Another day without any sleep. It's funny how I wished to sleep and never wake up, but here I was at the beginning of the failure.

I got up from my bed in a single jerk. The motivational theory I had seen on YouTube suggested that the longer you pursue the state of procrastination, the longer it treads behind you. It was the one thing I wanted to follow. It's difficult when you have to make your own rules.

As I walked into the bathroom my throat felt dry, as if it was a garden that hadn't been watered in ages. I picked up the toothbrush from the rack and fiddled with the bristles while the water rushed through. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. I looked like a corpse. My eye bags matched the colour of my eyes. I knew this was going to happen.

'Shit!' I cursed under my breath.

My Prozac was empty again. Maybe the dark circles were a side effect of the overuse of anti-depressants. But that was the least of my concerns right now. A sleep deprived morning accompanied by a lack of anti-depressants. Wow, I am totally succeeding at life, huh?

I thrust the drawer shut in haste and went back to my room. My wardrobe looked like I was prepping for someone's funeral each day of my life. Greys, blues and blacks were all I could spot. Under the third rack I spotted a purple tee. A smile flashed across my face and a tear rolled down at the very same time. I reminisced how bad I craved Prozac at that moment.

'You really should buy new clothes. Clearly, you need them.'

There he was. Standing at the door.

'Shut up, Dylan.'

Dylan was my roommate. Well, not exactly a roommate. He slept on the couch, didn't come in my room much. He didn't pay rent. To compensate for that, he cleaned the house, cooked for us, managed the bills, pretty much everything to do with the apartment.

To the best of my knowledge, he went to a tech school. I didn't ask him much when he first moved in because I didn't care. My life is rollercoaster enough, and the highs mostly don't exist. All I needed to know was that he wasn't Ted Bundy's third cousin. I didn't need the rent money, anyway. My parents sent me money every month, which was more than enough for me. Yes, I am the rich, spoiled kid. Clearly an overstatement, but you get it, right?

When I first moved to New York, I wasn't looking for a roommate. I had come here to graduate, so "finding a friend/roommate" wasn't the topmost priority. One month later, I realised that I was an incompetent, rich brat who couldn't manage an apartment on her own. I started looking for a roommate so that I could get help with at least a portion of the household chores. But instead, I found Dylan—a 20-year old broke kid, who was in desperate need of a place to live. Although I'd never accept it under daylight, but he was a blessing in disguise. He didn't have money to pay the rent, but I didn't need any. We came to a mutual agreement— I'll let him live in my apartment and in return, he'll do the chores. I expected him to put up a fight for the bedroom, but to my surprise, he was more than happy with the couch.

It's been a month since then. We talk to each other, but not about our personal lives. We joke around, bitch about our neighbours and have most of our meals together. It's almost concerning how little we know about each other. It's mostly my fault, though. I never tried to get to know him and whenever he tried to make personal conversation, I shot him down. I don't like talking about myself. "Rich, spoiled brat." is more than enough.

I took a shower and put on a black hooded sweatshirt with my favourite pair of Levi's denims. I put my brown hair in a messy bun. That's the best option you've got when you have wavy and unruly, aka, the worst kind of hair. Moreover, I didn't really care. I glanced in the mirror. I looked like I was getting ready to mug someone. I mean, was I?

'Michelle, breakfast's ready!' Dylan hollered.

The train of my thoughts experienced a sudden brake. I dragged myself over to the table.

'What's up smug face? What's wrong?' Dylan mocked.

It's hard to tell someone what's wrong when nothing feels right.

I rolled my eyes in response.

Yes, I can be a bit bitchy sometimes. Also, "bitchy" is an understatement.​ I stuffed the eggs in my mouth. As hard as it was for me to admit, Dylan was a really good cook.

After breakfast, I grabbed my bag and headed towards the door. I reminded myself that I had to get my Prozac on the way back. I knew I had to make something up to explain why I needed the pills two weeks before the prescription was supposed to be refilled. But that shouldn't be a problem because I've always been good at making things up.

I felt tired as soon as I stepped out of the apartment. The first day of freshman year.

'Kudos to college.' I whispered to myself, almost sarcastically.

But in my heart, I hoped for this to be a new start. A new start where I could be happy, away from all the pain and suffering.