Every day seemed less important than the day before until, inevitably, there was no real reason at all for him to go about his daily routine, hardly any reason even to just get out of bed in the morning.

There were nights that, just before he finally drifted off to his tormented sleep, he said a little prayer that he wouldn’t wake up the next day.

These prayers were at least partially answered when he found himself numbed through the morning and well into the afternoon, stumbling through the rest of the day and falling, anesthetized and paralytic, back into bed, often even before the sun had set.

Only a small portion —almost nothing— of who he was (or who he’d ever been) remained.

He stopped looking in mirrors, stopped writing in his journal; gave up speaking, made no eye contact with others; denied and denied and denied.

On rare occasion, he experienced the blissful reprieve of forgetting his own name.


4 thoughts on “Remainder

  1. Intricately written write-up. Loving the way that you portray those feelings and thoughts into your own majestic words. I could feel your story flow inside my veins. Hope to see more from you. Have hope, write on!

  2. Depression is a terrible thing with which to live. It can suck the color out of our days and the energy out of our bodies. Well written slice of life.

  3. Pingback: Author Interview – Tony Lovell – Bedbug’s Writing: A Collection of Short Stories + Poetry, Volume One & Bad Words (Bedbug’s Writing Book 2) | toofulltowrite (I've started so I'll finish)

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