Possibility of the Future

Chapter One

Unedited.

Chapter One

 I woke up. My eyelids opened. It was another day. Another day closer to what would inevitably be the end. An end no one really knew about.

I rolled to my back, crisp sheets gliding across my skin, and stared up at the ceiling. A ceiling that hadn’t changed often over the years. The first one was blue, blue like the sky over the ocean on a sunny day. Though I grew tired of the painful reminder, I didn’t paint over it. I just switched rooms, migrating to the more permanent housing the Guild provided for its members and away from my rather painful recruit year.

The space was bigger but at the same time, similar. More things fit, not that I had much; and I got a guest room, not that I used it. Mismatched chairs and lamps along with all the bits, bobs, and artwork I’d collected over the years. It all decorated the walls, bookshelves, and tables surrounding the couch.

My eyes shifted to the left to read the time. Four a.m.. Early. Only a handful of hours sleep. Over the years, the amount I’d needed had dwindled and for that I was grateful. Less sleep meant fewer nightmares. Fewer nightmares meant less mornings waking up with an adrenaline high which would take me most of the morning to come down off of.

Deciding it was time to start the day; I rolled once more and sat up. The carpet I’d placed under the bed protected my feet from the cold floor but I could still feel the chill in the air surround my legs.

The carpet didn’t help my head though. A steady pound had started and I knew what it was. No confusion here. I needed coffee but before that…

Without needing to switch on the light, I reached out in the dark and grabbed the crystal tumbler off the nightstand.

The best way I’d found to defuse a hangover headache was to drink a little in the morning and combine it with caffeine of choice quickly after. I doubt it worked for anyone else but for me, it was magic.

As I lifted the glass to my lips, I felt the familiar self-loathing bubble up in my chest and like every morning, I let myself feel it. I hated what I’d become, despised it. The life I was living wasn’t the one I’d imagined when I was young. But back then, I was naïve, believing love could conquer all and happily-ever-afters existed for everyone.

I’d discovered the truth of my beliefs and in a way, it had made me bitter. I wore that bitterness like one would a jacket, using it to defend myself and push others who would be my friend away.

But on the occasional morning, the self-hatred would burn away with the beginnings of the hangover. Then I’d be marginally more clearheaded and able to find myself amongst the tangles in my own head.

This morning wasn’t one of those better mornings. I knew it the moment the amber liquid touched my tongue and scorched down my throat as I swallowed. Today was going to be one hell of a day.

I could feel it.

Finally, I flicked on the light and as usual, my eyes landed on the painting across from my bed. It hung on my wall like it always had, ever since I’d received it when I was a teenager. The lack of color always surprised me, even this morning as I rolled the small glass between my palms. The blacks, whites, and grays made the painting unique. The color of my dark brown hair and the feather I held in my hand was what made it extraordinary.

I hated it. And I loved it at the same time. Why I hadn’t destroyed it or packed it up with some of the others, I didn’t know. Several times I’d taken it off the wall to remove it from the apartment but a wave of nostalgia always made me put it back. So there it stayed much to my annoyance.