CYAN
The curtains in my bedroom had been drawn so long I couldn't tell if the sun was up or down.
The air tasted stale, thick with the ash of too many cigarettes and the sweet, heavy smoke of weed I'd smoked just to numb the hum in my skull.
An ashtray on the nightstand was overflowing with butts, and a glass of warm, flat water sat beside it, untouched for hours.
My guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, gathering dust. I hadn't touched it in days.
My body felt heavy, like it had been filled with wet sand. I lay under the duvet, staring up at the plaster ceiling where small, invisible cracks seemed to spider-web outward, growing wider every time I blinked.
'Tick. Tick. Tick.'
The world outside was moving, but I was stuck at the bottom of a well.
Nick's words weren't just echoing anymore; they were living under my skin, crawling through my veins.
'Fake. Empty. A pathetic mess. Your father didn't want you.'
