Emily is asleep now. I am tired too, I wish I could sleep but my mind is too worried to relax. I sit on the floor staring at the carpet; muddy and worn down, it sits like a puddle in my empty mind. I pull myself up and look out through the window. The streams of rain run down the glass, slowing down before reaching the bottom, leaving a lake on the window sill. I sigh loudly and the window clouds up in front of me. I slowly reach forward and touch the window, my fingertips feel tender and the cold runs down my spine. I take my hand away, leaving a mark on the window which faded slowly. I rest my head on my knees and I fall into a daze, staring aimlessly out of the window.
I snapped back to reality as Emily started screaming again.
Emily always wakes up at this time; I am almost getting into the routine of when she wakes up. She was particularly upset tonight though so I had to walk her up and down the corridor. I don’t mind being awake at this time anymore, it means I sleep most of the day which is good as I have nothing better to do. I just make myself a cup of tea and then go back to bed. I hardly ever sleep in the night though; I just lie on my bed thinking about everything. I work out in my bed what I have to do the next day. It never changes though – I still have the same old routine everyday, the days go pretty quickly now, I used to think they went slowly. Before I realise it another day is gone, another wasted.
Trapped in my world. I watch the seasons pass through the window. Everyday brings a different picture, spring, summer, autumn and winter. I watch as the snow melts and as the trees turn green, I hear the squeals of excited children as the days get longer. Playing in the last rays of a warm sunny day, coming in blackberry stained and rosy cheeked. Autumn brings cold sun and the scrunching of crisp golden leaves. Winter covers all the worlds’ imperfections in a soft white cover. I wish I was young again and had a second chance instead of being trapped in this dank and boring flat, I feel imprisoned here with no way of getting out. It’s almost claustrophobic in here, it’s humid and small. I have one window which is where I sit all the time to write. There is little furniture but enough to survive with. There is a peculiar feeling in this flat, it’s not personal to me and doesn’t feel like a home. It’s just a prison, we are unable to escape.
Inside, pleasantly dry, though I still feel the rain as it speckles the window to which I now have my forehead pressed. Silvery droplets tap against the glass. The wind is blowing and the glass leaves a cold shiver down my spine as I look down to the dump. It stays there, nearly still, barely moving as the dark murky clouds pass by with the wind. Leaves rustle and plummet from trees, swiftly to the ground. The old park where the children should be playing is deserted and the rusty swings move silently in the breeze. The photograph that is my window is only grey, white and black, completely colourless. The image shadows my feelings which I have bottled up for so long. This reflection finally gets to me as a tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe my face though I can’t feel anything. I touch my lips; they are dry and bitter. I draw the curtains and wander across the nearly empty room. I lie silently on my bed and hope it will be better in the morning.
