Tomorrow

The back of the bench digs into my back a little as I lean into it. I tilt my head back and stare up into the canvas of the night sky. The stars flickering like stones in a river of ebony; I reach my hand up to try to pluck one from its bed. My empty hand stares back at me as I draw it back in. I exhale slowly, my breath steaming against the evening’s chill. My path forward is dimly lit by the sparse street lights. Groaning against my burdens, I push myself up from the bench and begin the journey home.

Only the muffled echoes of my trampling feet reverberate in the barren streets. Here and there, the dim lights of people’s homes cut back against the encroaching night. It’s only a short walk back to the main street, but I take my time. Lately, my life has been nothing but a coursing river, blatantly surging through its course. Now it seems like everything has come to a crashing halt. I tap a cigarette out of the pack I pulled from my pocket. Putting it to my lips, I take a deep draw of air. My life before today had been nothing but plans and time lines, but now; I’m cast adrift.

The cherry-colored light of my cigarette bobs through the barely lit hallway as I walk towards my bedroom. All the familiar things in my home seem alien to me now; artifacts of a different time, a different life. I push the door open to my bedroom and it responds with a shivering creak. Books and papers scattered across the floor. The dim light of my laptop casts shadows against the sparse furniture. An unkempt mess of blankets and pillows reside on top of my bed. A room not much different from the current state of my mind, I drop myself onto the bed. “Tomorrow…” I say aloud to myself. “Tomorrow’s the day.”

Creeping in like a snake, the dawn makes its way through the window. The bed sits empty, the pillows and sheets kicked to the floor. The bedroom door hangs open, a silent guard now off duty. Pictures that once hung on the wall are now scattered like refuse along the hallway. A cigarette smolders in the ashtray on the kitchen table. Its smoke dancing with the early day’s light. Resting next to a now cold cup of coffee lays a folded piece of paper and a pen. Etched on the papers marbled surface in blue ink is a name once held so dear. The words chiseled upon its pages telling the story thus far.