- Fucked
My head is on a swivel, left and right. I’m trying to find something to look at as I sit in my chair, hands on keyboard, expected by my own mind to write. I can feel the breath of an editor down my neck, though he isn’t in the room, and I’m just trying to place my gaze anywhere other than that rotten blinking cursor in front of me.
I scrunch up my face and tears well in my eyes before I open them and return them to the page. I blink for a moment before allowing my eyes to grow out of focus, where I look through my screen into my own reflection looking back at me with an expression of weary sickness. My head is splitting down the middle, or perhaps it is from the side.
There is this radiating throb regardless, and I don’t think the sounds of destruction emanating up the stairwell are helping. There is a man doing repair work on the bathroom. Or at least I hope there is. I didn’t see him come in, and I haven’t heard any words from him, but I can hear the vicious smashing of tiles and dull thuds of something hitting something. Perhaps a burglar. I can’t be bothered to check.
‘Oh woe, be ye’, I think, turning my attention back to the infernal blinking caret. It feels as if the air around me is molasses. I’ve got no trouble breathing, but movements are as if through a thick horrible.
They’re smashing about the hammer again, my page is near blank, and my eyelids have taken on the same heavy weight of my pouting lips. Another hour spent. Nothing done.