9:52 p.m.

The low humming of the street lamp is interrupted by the clinking of the overhead bell, and I am hit by a rush of cool, stagnant air as I pull the double door open. A man slouches over the register, marked by pearly translucent skin and bloodshot eyes. Offers me a smile and glances sidelong out the fogged window.

We speak.
I tell him life hurts tonight.
And, hey, wouldn't it be easier if humans didn't possess consciousness?

                                  He laughs.
                                  It is hollow.
                                     I laugh.
                                  It is hollow.
                                   A mirror.
                                 A reflection.
                                        
We are in sync. Swimmers on an Olympic team that do not come up for air. We suffer. We struggle. We would rather die.

Laced with the reminder: I am alone.

A part of my soul peels away at the corner, 1950's wallpaper never glued on quite right; torn edges lift themselves up and in any other reality perhaps my mother's love would have been waiting for me there.

But the edges continue to peel into a mocking smile. Mocking itself. Mocking me.

There is no hope to be found here.

The overhead bell jingles as I step out onto the steamy pavement, popping a mint and freshening my breath for the coroner.