You hear your alarm clock from the corner of a dream—a nightmare, in fact. The sound reaches you as if from afar, and it takes all of your willpower to resist the lulling pull of sleep. You open your eyes as you hit the alarm clock, and the irritating noise stops at once. You try to shake off the remains of the bad dream; you try to forget the flowers and the coffin and the eyes that stare at the sky but can’t really see. You stand up and walk through the pitch-black room into the bathroom. Without bothering to turn on the lights, you take a shower that lasts exactly seven minutes- not six, not eight; seven.

 

          You dress in your simple, unremarkable clothes, always shades of blues and greys. You comb your hair meticulously and stare at yourself in the mirror: just the same grim expression, the same tired eyes, the same dejected face. You close your eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths, to stop despair from overwhelming you. Inhale, exhale; inhale, exhale. You concentrate on your breathing and try your best not to think of anything. That’s all you do these days, try not to think.

 

          The only light in the kitchen comes from a tiny window, and you eat your breakfast in the semi-darkness. You munch your cereal methodically, more out of routine than for the pleasure of the food itself, and wash it down with a cup of tasteless black coffee. When you are finished, you wash your tableware (which consists merely of a small bowl and a cup) and look at the clock. As always, you have some time until you have to leave, so you read the papers you will work with today. They don’t vary at all from what you read yesterday, or what you’ll read tomorrow; it’s always the same boring topics, the same old problems, the same meaningless papers.

 

          You go out the door without looking back and cross the dried garden. There used to be flowers and butterflies, maybe even a cat, but you can’t remember the colors or the smells anymore. You walk down the street in a self-effacing manner, as if you were trying to blend in with the background. The walk to the bus stop is short, and when your bus finally comes you feel a strange relief. At least, when you’re in a crowded bus full of exhausted people, you can try to pretend you’re someone else, you can try to forget you exist. Except you can never forget, not really; the memory is always there, lurking in the back of your mind, in your dreams, in your eyes.

 

          It’s ten minutes to eight when you are entering the office. It’s a huge, grey building that is slowly falling apart, the years it’s lived already starting to show. The sight is depressing: just hundreds of grey, robotic-like people dragging themselves towards the entrance. You say hello to a few people, some of whom respond in kind, others who barely notice you’re there. Your office-mates acknowledge your presence with some grunts, one or two with a distracted greeting.

 

          You sit down to work in the crowded room, typing rapidly in the computer, with a cup of coffee next to the mouse. The hours pass by slowly, agonizingly, but it’s not like you’re in a hurry to get home—there’s no one to get home to. It’s a relief when lunch break arrives, and you and your office-mates go down to the cafeteria to eat. Everyone’s laughing, telling jokes, complaining about the food—everyone but you, that is.

 

          You sit down and listen silently to what people are saying, and you can’t help but wonder when was the last time you told a story at lunchtime. Some weeks ago? Months? You can’t really remember. Someone asks you a question, and you reply without knowing what you’re answering. You’ve become a master at that, answering questions without paying attention to what’s being said. A fragment of conversation reaches your ears and actually makes it to your brain. The tone is light, cheerful. How long has it been since you told a cheerful story? How long has it been since you laughed sincerely? How long has it been since you didn’t have to pretend everything’s alright?

 

          The back-to-work bell signals you to go back to your so-called office. Every now and then someone says something, maybe a joke, maybe a comment, and you pretend to laugh with the rest of your officemates, even though you aren’t following along. You go back to your typing and reading, a cup of coffee always nearby. How many cups are you drinking daily? Five? Six? More? You can’t be sure, you’ve long stopped counting. As the hours go by, the office slowly starts to empty. By seven o’clock, you are the only one remaining. You shut down the computer and neatly gather up all your papers. You turn off the low-consumption lights and close the door.

 

          The building is eerily quiet, most of the people having gone to their homes for a deserved rest after a day of hard work. You exit and walk over to the bus stop. The bus is almost entirely unoccupied, except for a young man sleeping and a security guard probably on his way to work. Your mind begins to drift, and you focus on the sound of the engine running, a tranquil lullaby that pulls you into a dozing state.

 

          You enter your dark house and go into the kitchen. You turn on one light, not because you want to, but because you need it to prepare dinner. You heat some sort of frozen edible in the microwave and sit down in the table, forcing the food down your throat. You make a point of not looking at the empty chair in front of you, of ignoring the crushing silence that threatens to break you.

 

          You finish your dinner, and after cleaning up, you go through the living room into your bedroom. You pass through the living room at maximum speed, looking forward, ignoring the walls. Through the corner of your eye, however, you see the pictures, you see the empty flower pot, you see the memories you’ve been fighting so hard to push back. You thought about taking the pictures down, but you couldn’t face them. You couldn’t face the smiles and the eyes and the people in them. But most of all you couldn’t face the memory of happier times, when there was someone in your life, when not everything was lonely. When you weren’t empty.

 

          You lie down in the bed and do your best to fall asleep, but the memories haunt you like a monster hunts its prey, when you’re asleep, when you’re awake. The emptiness of the house threatens to crush you, and you feel despair and grief on the verge of breaking your self-control. You stand up and take one of your sleeping pills from the bathroom, like you’ve started to do every night. But not even in a drug-induced sleep are you safe from what awaits you when you wake up. No, you’re never safe from the loneliness. You swallow the pill and feel the weariness gaining power over you. You let yourself become numb; you give in to the false promises of safety and happiness. And when you finally fall asleep, it’s only to be awoken by your alarm clock once again.