What's the purpose?

I continued to lay cuddled up in my comfy, warm bed, covered by my thin silk blanket. At that moment, I just wished I could've spent the rest of my life sleeping on that mattress, without having to suffer any consequences.

Why couldn't life be that easy? 

Well, I already know the answer to this question, but despite that, I keep asking myself, wishing for it to become more than just a daydream of an ideal life, hoping that, if there is a God out there, it will maybe hear me...but I'm just whining to myself, that's all. 

I finally opened my eyes, ceasing to continuously stall the moment in which I would wake up and start my day. 11 AM. I saw the number on the screen of my clock, right on my night stand, shown in big, red, bright digits. Around the same number I've been used to seeing when I wake up for a while now. Nothing new, nothing new at all.

I stand up in a sitting position by the side of my bed, staring at whatever crossed my eyesight. It's there, just like always. The deep unsettling feeling that's been ruining my days, clouding my mind. When is it going to go away? Can't I just get over it? It seems like not...

Still. My body is still, unwilling to move, even if i command it to. The warmth and coziness of my bed is tempting, really tempting. Or, rather, the lack of memory, not having to endure living my life, zoning out, that's what's really attractive about sleep...but I can't just do it forever, unfortunately. I have to get myself together and keep going. My mother always told me that I will have to face different obstacles during life which I'll have to surpass. I thought I understood at the time. I didn't and I don't. It feels like I'm facing an enormous brick wall blocking my path, one that I haven't figured out how to climb. At least not yet.

The room is dark, the curtains are bocking the light rays from passing through windows. I like it this way. Blinded by the darkness, as if lost into the abyss, leaving you with your own self, lost in thoughts. Thoughts of a perfect world, a world in which none of it happened, in which I am different, in which I am as I hope I would be and I could enjoy my existence without any regrest or sadness. Pure bullshit. 

I eventually find my strengths to get up on my feet. I pull the soft, long curtains to the side, allowing the sunlight to irritate my retina for a couple seconds, though it felt like hours with burning eyes. The view is beautiful as always, the blue sky is as clear as ever, while the landscape of the city is mesmerizing. I remember I used to be so excited waking up in the morning as a child, just so I could have the chance to see the sun rise over the city. But not anymore. Thing have changed haven't they? It's only normal after all, I guess.

The bright light of the ''almost after-noon'' exposes my room: the messy bed with months-old sheets, the desk covered in textbooks and video game CD's, covering my keyboard, the Nirvana albums hanging on the wall, right above the one and only, dusty floor, mainly covered in worn outfits that I couldn't be bothered to pick up. Great room, am I right?

I make my way through the mess of my room, shoving away with my feet anything that got in my way. I hesitantly reach for the door, unsure of what awaits me in the long, empty hallway, full of family pictures placed in nicely sculpted wooden frames. I disgust it. Or, at least, now I do. It haunts me with memories that I want to forget, of times I was helpless, whilst also reminding me of heart-warming moments from my past, from my sweet childhood. 

My hand gently touches the cold iron handle, but doesn't press it. Though my brain is telling my hand to move, it won't, as if my body suddenly stiffened out of the blue. Subconsciously, all I want is to be alone, to avoid interaction as much as possible. I don't want others to see me this way, even when it comes to family. Everyone knows me as the hard-working, model student with a bright future ahead of him. It's amusing just how unpredictable life can be at times, isn't it?

I haven't eaten in over 16 hours. I can feel the stomach pain emerging, getting more intense by the minute, like a call for help that becomes louder and louder. Instinctively, the first thought that crosses my mind is to eat, to exit the room and head for the kitchen...I don't react.

What's the purpose?

Would it matter if I disappeared from the face of the Earth? Would it make any difference?

No. It wouldn't, not by a long shot. Yet I am still here, in flesh and bones, forcing myself to get up out of my bed and carry on my life, heading cluelessly towards wherever God will take me. Why? I wanted to become a criminalist, I really did. I wanted to store justice and catch any criminal on the loose out there. I really wanted to...

The question remains.

I can hear some noise coming from the end of the hallway, a handle being pulled, a door being opened. Now I remember. He is the reason, the reason I don't want to give up, the reason I keep trying and trying, despite continuing to fail. Tobias.

The only purpose I can find to my existence is guiding him, to be there when he needs me the most. It's my duty. I want to be his big brother. I want him to prosper, to avoid the same mistakes I've done. The last thing I want is for him to suffer the same faith I have, to become lazy, a failure...Like I have (or so people say). 

The steps become quieter as he's furthering himself from his room. There's no sign of grandma either. My muscles relax and a begin to filled with a relieving feeling. I open the door slowly, peeking from behind the door. Nobody is in sight, only the silent, monotonous corridor with its yellow painted walls (always remind me of the Backrooms). I step my foot on the cold parquet, as I battle the urge to back down, to lock myself in my room, and I'm not talking about the door. 

Sometimes I wonder why I find it so hard to be my past self. Why anxiety constantly pulls me back from behaving the way I'd like. I keep wondering, as if this way I would erase my memory, trick my brain into thinking there is no reason, that I'm foolish. I'm just being delusional, or, maybe, hopeful for better days, but nothing changes, nothing has changed for the past months. I am trapped in a loop that seems impossible to escape, a rewind of my previous days, only with slight, unsignificant changes, if even.

Fuck it.

I fully leave my room, allowing the fresh summer air, coming through the partially open window to my side, enter my nostrils, as I silently close the door behind me. I waited a few seconds, staring at the end of the corridor in skepticism.

Good, the brat didn't hear a thing.

I turn left and drag myself inside the kitchen, a small parallelepipedical room with nothing more than an old, rusty fridge, a two-seat wooden table (I usually eat in my room) by the wall with a white ceramic pot on top, another rusty oven, and a couple of scratched cupboards. God knows how old this furniture is and what it has gone through. When I look at the damage it has suffered, I immediately associate it to a human soul, to the way it can permanently be damaged, mutilated by events that, like it or not, occur during one's lifespan, even at an old age. 

I'm losing my focus.

Without giving it much thought, I direct my gaze straight at the fridge, which became rather gray than white over time, and I open it, hurryingly, trying to achieve my goal in the shortest time possible, leaving the door wide open. I take a look inside. It's predominantly empty, Grandma hasn't come back with the groceries yet. All that catches my attention is a half-empty glass bottle of milk, placed on the door shelf, next to the single other thing on there, a open ketchup bottle with an odd smell to it. Probably has expired.

I grab both bottles with both my hands. I put one on the table, whilst throwing the other one into the trash can. You can guess which one's which. I turn around from the table and face the cupboards above the sink, full of dirty plates and glasses, dishes that I should have washed by now. I put my hands on the cereal box and close the cabinet just as quietly as before...as I always do, over and over. It never ends.

I sit down, eating one spoon of cereal after another, when I finally realise and the unsettlement appears once more. I involuntarily drop the spoon from my hand, ending up splashing a couple of milk drops on my pyjamas. 

Today is sunday. Tomorrow is the first day of school, but not just a regular one. Tomorrow is the first day at Woodbury High.