ghost light.

misfortune & mistakes.

If there was a single word to classify your morning under, it'd be 'unfortunate'. The morning had started quite nicely actually, peaceful. Quiet. Silent. No rustling in the apartment, no music, no alarm. A pen could drop clear on the other side of the apartment and you'd hear it clear as day in your corner of your humble abode. Only the distant noises of cars honking and birds chirping as they passed kept you company, the rest stray—the sound of your gentle breathing filling the space.

Habitually, you blinked slightly, doing your best to keep your eyes closed as you turned to lay on your back, arms stretching up and above you, not fully realizing how tense set your body was. Sunlight peeked through the blinds, catching small flecks of dust and reflecting with lines of light spanning across your room as you rubbed your eyes in an effort to expedite your awakening. Scrunching your nose as you yawned, you took a moment, reminiscing on the pure oasis of your isolation before getting caught up on the intrusive thoughts begging you to start your morning. The back of your hand rested on the bridge of your nose, covering your eyes in hopes to delay the inevitable. You laid still, contemplating the consequences of waiting idly in bed for the remainder of the day. In its place, another revelation, one with quite negative association, cycled through your thoughts on a fast track.

No alarm.

    The creeping light blinded you, eyes hesitating to open and inevitably causing you to squint in disapproval. Shifting your hand from its place resting on your nose, you patted the area around you, namely the side of your bed and onwards. It was no doubt searching for the end of the stand by your bed—the spot your phone usually took up residence at the end of the night. Bingo. Slowly relaxing with a weighted sigh, you opened your eyes and attempted to adjust to the light before unlocking your phone. In doing so, your attempt to catch the time was replaced by a message, one sent by an Unknown sender—at least at first glance.

Unknown

7th Ave B/Q Subway, 11am.

     -C. Barber, DIRECTOR, EXIT GHOST

    Lydia. She must have worked her magic or something and slipped him your number. She hates emailing, something about it 'not being with the times' or whatever her excuse may be. Granted, texting was easier, more direct, more organized—and in all fairness you craved some hint of stability. You yawned again, catching sight of the time as it subsided. 10:38am. You must have broken a world record for how many times 'shit' could be repeated—your default thought when thrown into a panic—only this time, it sounded as an alarm in your head.

Much of the morning after that text was a blur. Started with jumping out of bed, not properly acclimated to the morning quite yet and consequently tripping over Friday nights clothes and belongings sprawled across your floor. Yes, it was Monday and yes, you still hadn't cleaned the mess post-social endeavors. Your floor was littered with the discarded outfit, the denim jacket sleeves serving as creeping vines, entangling themselves around your ankles as you made your way to the door.

The bathroom portion of your routine was less than ideal. All the good towels were gone, only the scratchy tattered ones in the back of the cupboard remained—a product of you and Lydia not having done laundry for the week yet. The shower was ice cold, less than pleasant but enough to pull you from your morning haze. In that moment, your routine felt like a film sequence set at 2x the playback speed but on a lagging computer where the video is moving faster than the audio. You were on autopilot, letting your actions flow as your mind was running a mile a minute trying to process how the day would go. This would technically be your first professional impression with Charlie and the company, and you were already massively behind schedule.