Mornings

Mornings

      They say mornings are the worst, and if you saw him now, you'd believe it. With 1-9 printed in reverse on his face, you'd know that she didn't call again last night. Does it look like the face of surprise to you?
      You can only pity so much; as you see yourself in the shoes of some sad sucker's sad fucked up life, you think you can fathom the pain. His sunken sockets convince you that he is far beyond that point of pity - when he no longer appears human, he doesn't wear shoes.
      He only allows himself to think on his days off, and from the cobwebs behind his eyes, you can tell he hasn't had one in awhile.
      He begins his morning with a ritual you've seen in every tragedy yet so distinctly his own. Sitting upright and shaking himself violently does not throw off the dust sufficiently for you to not believe that he is a zombie. Pausing only for a moment, he reaches under his pillow and tears a battered ziploc from your hands. He opens it with a tenderness almost equal to the indifference he took it from you with.
Only an inch open on the right side, he holds it to his nose and tries to draws a breeze that smells faintly of lilacs and lavender; if his mind cannot be filled with anything remotely pleasant, at least his sinuses can. He only read the letter in the bag once - it was written long after he wanted anything new. I'm sure you'd have the face of surprise if he saw you now.
      He grabs a random, tattered sheet of paper from a stack on his dresser and stumbles to the bathroom. He lifts the lid, and you wonder if he knows how naked he looks. He thumbs through the sheets as his own stench fills what used to be his only beautiful body cavity. You know he's been to the grand canyon before, so he must know the effect his tears colliding with his knees for the past hour are having. He flushed long ago; you wonder if he lingers because he knows the rest of the day begins when he washes at the sink, or he just feels comfortable with his pants down and head bowed in a valley between his shoulders, hoping to pass what's left of his humanity into the sewer.
If you cared, you might remind him to start packing for the move tomorrow.
      His drawn jaw tells you that he finally realized that the universe does indeed conspire against him, and that he just doesn't fucking care anymore. You quite possibly don't see it though, as you're far too busy to fucking care anymore.
      Seated before the android glow of a screen that glares back at him, he slowly realizes that no one missed him as he slept. Does that look like the face of surprise to you?
      You wonder if he knows that being communicated to does not necessarily mean you exist as he fishes for an instant message. God just might share that sentiment.
      He glances out the window at just the wrong time to see your little sister walking across the street. You wonder why he is squinting his eyes and pretending to see her at a greater distance.
      "Damn your proximity," his first words of the day. He opens a chat window with you, just in case you decide to talk to him again. He promised you he wouldn't after he realized that anything short of silence would offend you. That doesn't stop him from staring at the bottom, waiting for a greeting that you make sure will never come.

Place of death: A computer chair
Time of death: Weeks ago
Cause of death: You