Stasis
The air in your room is cold when you wake up. It's always cold, even when you cocoon yourself in blankets and your fluffiest fleece pajamas. Mom's been talking about getting the heating fixed for the past month.
The sky outside your window is a chalky, bleak gray. The view isn't anything splendid: a stretch of concrete sidewalk lined with bony trees and well-trimmed grass. It's the same view you've woken up to for the past fifteen years, and in those fifteen years, not a notable thing has changed.
Your room is small but comfortable enough. White carpet, white walls, a few faded posters of bands you don't really care about anymore. A tiny adjacent bathroom is behind the door opposite your bed.
The digital clock sitting atop your white plywood dresser reads 6:23 AM. Your alarm goes off at 6:30. Lately, you've been waking up just minutes before it rings. (like clockwork, if you please).
You rub your eyes and yawn.
The sky outside your window is a chalky, bleak gray. The view isn't anything splendid: a stretch of concrete sidewalk lined with bony trees and well-trimmed grass. It's the same view you've woken up to for the past fifteen years, and in those fifteen years, not a notable thing has changed.
Your room is small but comfortable enough. White carpet, white walls, a few faded posters of bands you don't really care about anymore. A tiny adjacent bathroom is behind the door opposite your bed.
The digital clock sitting atop your white plywood dresser reads 6:23 AM. Your alarm goes off at 6:30. Lately, you've been waking up just minutes before it rings. (like clockwork, if you please).
You rub your eyes and yawn.