In the early mornings when the cloudy haze of the night hovers weakly over the earth, and the sun is hidden behind the great bundles in the sky, my eyes open to the stillness of the shadows, the junction between night and day. I exhale. My father's soft sighs can be heard through our thin, crumbling walls. My fingers slide over my bare legs and I curl up like a caterpillar, not ready to shed my layers of blankets and confront the stinging, cold air. My head feels heavy and empty at the same time--misty, as if the thick, morning fog had been ****** up into the space where my skull should be. My eyes are grainy and dry; my skin feels raw and cracked. I pull the cocoon tighter around my body, ready to sink back into my state of unconsciousness. Suddenly, his name is on the tip of my tongue, bitter, burning the insides of my mouth. I am pulled by my neck out of my reverie; uselessly, I struggle. They come to me in waves--the realization, the recognition, the understanding, the pain--rocking me while my body lies shriveled and numb.

It was a matter of time, I think.

I hate waking up to this.