The word melancholy describes how I feel right now. The sunlight seeps through the light violet curtains and splays across deeper colored sheets. Stings at my eyes. But I don't move. Why should I? It's just a waste of energy.
I inhale, quietly, deeply, and stare into nothing as morning presses onward.
Slowly.
Slowly.
It's like I'm back in the hospital.
White walls. White ceiling. White clothes.
The color seems to be fading out of everything.
Or perhaps everything is simply separating from color.
The white overtakes my sight for a few moments, and I swear I see blues and reds and yellows seeping from my vision, drifting into the air, fading into nothing.
But my eyes blink, and things are normal again.
To my left, red numbers on a black backdrop tell me it's just past ten in the morning. I still have time.
They'd given me a month when I last asked.
They told me exactly when. The exact day and hour.
I didn't know that they could know that about me.
I didn't know that these things could be figured out to such precision.
Well, it doesn't matter.
What does matter is that...
I still have time.
Twelve hours. I tell myself, I still have a little time.
But time has never been kind to me. In my youth, perhaps it had been. Hours of play, hours of laughter. And how many hours have I wasted away doing nothing of importance?
These days, however, the hours are of pain and perseverance. These hours are of silent destruction, forces raging on and on. Battles that refuse to be won. And I've given up fighting them. They'll just consume me. That's what they'll do.
They'll sneak in, then strike with a force so powerful, I can't possibly win. So, I've allowed myself to be defeated even before the struggle truly began.
I don't have the strength to fight, anyway.
Not anymore.
I still have twelve hours left.