Wake: Feature Fiction
I wake to the familiar droning of my computer fan in the far corner of my dark bedroom.
The soft sound falling onto my ears feels like the comforting patter of rain. I open my eyes to the same blank ceiling as every other morning, with a small, unlit light bulb hanging from the centre. My room is only lit by the faint light of dawn filtered through the blinds of my window. The cold autumn breeze flows through with the light, and I feel as if I might freeze from skin to bone. I welcome the sweet embrace of frost; it fits with my mind. I kick the grey blanket off my legs and swing them over the side of my small bed frame, and shiver as my bare feet touch the cold, wooden floor. It almost feels like a ritual by now, but I can't really call it that because it's just me getting out of bed. I let out a sigh.
Always over-analyzing, I think to myself. It really isn't necessary, but maybe the whole over-analyzing is a ritual in itself. I let out another sigh.
I woke up in a dream today, to the sound of static, and put my cold feet on the floor. The same song lyrics play in my head again as I stand up and stretch my arms out in front of me; my arms straight and my fingers locked together ahead of me and bent dangerously far in the wrong direction. I walk over to the wooden dresser standing in the corner of the room, closest to the only window, and look through what's left of my clean shirts; all the others make up a material mound on the floor next to the dresser. Everything inside is made up of greys, darker greys, and blacks, but one shirt in particular catches my eye. Its almost glossy white sleeve calls to me, and when I take the shirt off its hanger, I'm met with somewhat of a surprise: the shining white print contrasting with a soft black logo and design on it, as well as the rest of the shirt itself feeling like a woollen sweater.
Minutes to Midnight. A wry smile crawls onto my face as I look at the album logo printed onto the thick cotton in my hands. More song lyrics rush into my head, but this time specific to the design I see in front of me. I slip the shirt over my head and struggle to get my arms through the sleeves; it's a little small now, but I'll manage.
I walk back to the foot of my bed and pick up the grey tracksuit pants haphazardly flung over the wooden frame from last night and step into them, one leg at a time, as most people do. I think, Is it weird to do one leg at a time or do other people put both legs in at once? My mind suddenly swarms with unnecessary anxieties, and I stop for a moment just to process the abundance of thoughts in my head. I take a deep breath to try and clear my mind, but as expected, it doesn't work, so I move on with my daily routine and try my best to block out the distorted whimsy floating around the blank spaces of my mind.
I step out of my room and into my house's single short hallway; the walls around me plastered with a dull beige that transitions into a bright baby blue as I step into my bathroom. I plant my hands on opposite sides of the ceramic sink in front of me and stare into the mirror cabinet mounted on the tile wall at my head height. I stare straight ahead into my own dark, sunken eyes and once again try to clear my head.
Stefan states that he can’t be bothered writing a bio. He thinks this says more about him than anything he could actually tell you.