Rot
a short story
Trigger warning: Indirect mention of bedrot and depression. This is NOT based on personal experience, but if you feel this way, please, remember, there is help and people who care about you to support you on your way to a better life.
Tired. That’s all I am. That’s all I have ever been. Tired. Tired. Tired. Everyone has told me so. Everyone has said so. I am just a tired, cranky little brat.
Always sleeping, motionless and lazy. Fallen into a deep trance of disturbing tranquil stillness.
Uncanny lullabies spiral in my head, forcing wakefulness into my tense body.
It’s only 1pm, but I’m exhausted, as usual, lying in my bed with my eyes half lidded, but with no intention of closing. Occasionally, they flutter, and I get tunnel vision. But I don’t care about that. I don’t care about anything I can’t control. Less so my body.
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I look to my right, a glass of still, stagnant water, resting atop a mould speckled digestive biscuit, ants nested on the inside. Looking down, I can’t see my floor. Clothes, takeout wrappers, and drink cans littered around, up to the top of my bedframe.
I don’t move my body and I barely move my head. If I had the choice, I wouldn’t move at all. I can’t be bothered. I have gotten to the point where I pee into an empty milk bottle. I repulse myself, but despite that, I’m too tired. I can’t move. I don’t want to.
I feel insects crawl across my oily, flaky scalp, biting and burrowing. I feel pus and grease filling up my pores, puffing my face up, and I just let myself be consumed. They have more to live for. More energy.
Is it to late to just… rest? That’s all I want. Just let me sleep. Just let me sleep! I’m tired of wakefulness! Just let me sleep! Please!
…
Just… forever…
And ever…
Let me rot here…
