Perpetual Rain ✓

Grits

How could the dead feel tired? You didn't understand the logistics of all of this. Rolling in your bed, you turned onto your left side and stared at the hazed white light shining through the sheet of clouds and brightening up your untouched room. Beads of water tapped against the glass in their relentless and never-ending race to the ground. It had never stopped raining, now you were more aware of this blatant fact. When was the last time you had seen the sun?

Your subconscious recalled the events of last night, how drained you had felt once you were finally left to your own devices. You'd dragged yourself back into your home and mosied your way back to your room. You must have passed out due to the exhaustion, that or it wasn't the same day you would believe it was. You didn't even want to try and check, what did it matter anymore? What was the purpose of escaping from the bed that coddled you in thick blankets of comfort? 

But, you dragged yourself from your bed anyway. Glancing at the little cat clock on your nightstand that your mother had given you on your 10th birthday, you saw that it was just after eight in the morning. Out of habit, you wandered into your private bathroom and splashed the cool water from the tap onto your skin before wiping it clean with a towel, brushing your teeth and hair as if it were just any other normal day. Though when you raised your head to look in the mirror, you couldn't help but stare mindlessly at your own reflection. 

It was indeed you, staring back at you. Though you looked as if you hadn't slept in years. Your complexion was more grey and sickly than you recalled before and your hair lacked its luster. You became aware of every detail of your own face. The small freckle on your cheek, the way your eyes creased when you looked a certain direction, the smile lines that formed on your cheek when you turned your lips up. Every detail of your facial expression that helped form the appearance people would see, the face they would come to mind when they thought of you. How many people were remembering this face now? 

You snapped yourself out of the brain controlling thoughts and decided to leave such pointless questions to drain down the sink with the dirty water you had washed off. You left the bathroom, still in your pajamas, and headed out of your bedroom door. You had no objective, what goals could you possibly form in the state you were in? 

You smelt the lingering scent of grits and butter. Your nose crinkled as you let your feet carry you into the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a small spread on the table. Bull-eyes toast - which was just toast with a hole cut into the middle and the egg cooked inside - buttered grits just like your father liked, and a pitcher of orange juice. You scuffed softly, a smile forming on your lips as the thought crossed your mind - how stereotypical your mother was as a housewife. 

That was what she had always wanted to be though, wasn't it? A wife and a mother. You could never recall her ever really expressing desires in anything else. She dedicated her entire life to two people, you and your father - who was missing from the breakfast table.  

She continued to set a table for three, and you didn't know if it was intentional or out of habit from the past eighteen years. Her back was to you as she worked on cutting up fruit next to the sink of a small bowl that she commonly sat in the center of the table for everyone to nibble at. It didn't seem to phase her that no one was there to eat the food she had spent time making. 

"Good morning, Mom." You called out, knowing full well that she couldn't hear you at all. Still, you talked anyway. You walked over to the sink and stood by her. Watching as she carefully sliced a green apple in the palm of her hand, considerately making the slices just a bit thicker than usual just the way you had always liked. "It looks good." You commented, faking a smile as you leaned forward on the counter, folding your arms under you to support your weight.