Coffee.

It feels better than it tastes. It's silky, smooth and coursing like a river down your throat then leaking, expanding, heating your quivering cold limbs. It's cold outside, and coffee feels like the only way to feel warm again. To feel wanted again. Sometimes, I drink it to move the rusty cogs in my brain. The warmth may only last a few minutes but the lasting effect of jittery motivation is what drives my fingers to succeed. They fly over my keyboard with grace, but not accuracy. They work and work fuelled by liquid panic pushing them to extremes. I stumble over my words. Backspace, backspace, backspace; but as long as I am typing I am making progress. My mind clouds over, like my eyes are trapped behind a bridal veil. I can see particles dance in the air. They distract me, but my fingers keep moving scared to break my command. The world moves by around me; slower than usual yet every movement I make rushes through the dancers, making waves, shattering all that surrounds me. I am pushing through it all. Indestructible. Successful. Making waves.

Wait - hang on, breathe. My breath forms a shaky cloud of anxiety in front of me. It comes out in ripples and tremors. It is light grey; bleak. It sits in front of me never moving, obscuring my vision more than the veil already did. Thick and deadly the mist fills my nostrils and my lungs grimace at the texture. Mist turns to slime, gripping to the walls of my body as my lungs demand air. I begin to feel nausea. I lift my hand up from the keyboard. It quivers and shakes, telling me I haven't got long left. Tik. Tok. It's 14:34. A chorus of keyboards tapping, teaspoons in mugs chiming, and human laughter sets the scene, only now it seems blurred, muffled. Why am I not laughing with them? I should be laughing! This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. 14:35. One hour and 55 minutes left.

My fingers stroke the keys where they rest. Left: Q, E, D. Right: J, I, L. Wrong, out of order, lost - I was never a touch-typist. My eyes flick to the screen and panic sets in as the words merge into alphabet soup, dripping and congealing; an artist creates work on my computer screen. A waft of day old chicken tikka rises from the microwave and entwines itself with the grey smog sitting in my lungs. I swallow any feelings of nausea and push my stomach acid down, down, down. It bubbles and lurches like a witches brew in my chest. I am poisoned by the smells and sounds that are inflicted upon me. Strapped to this worn office chair I sit, ball gagged with my tired and calloused fingers tied together. There is silence where I sit, for no fighting words can leave my chapped and broken lips. I sit frozen; clock-watching. 14:43. I can taste blood. Did I mention my lips were cracked? My smart clothes and perfectly painted nails cannot hide the neglect I subject myself to - not completely. The taste is honeycomb jammed in my teeth and gums, stuck and un-moving; perhaps a drink would help ease the pain. It's cold outside.

Coffee. It tastes better than it feels.