Why Bother?

You wake up. Bleary. The time is a mystery, a riddle which is beyond your capacity to solve. Not that it matters, you don't care. Your head is pounding and the world around you blurs itself into a river of indistinguishable shapes and colours. You idly wonder what you had been doing last night. It was undoubtedly something regretful, but you know that you won't remember exactly until your friends mock you for it; which they will. The thought of work occurs to you, but somehow it doesn't seem to matter. Listlessly, you roll back over and fall back to your faded dreams.

You are yanked awake sharply, a malicious trill filling the room. High pitched. Whining. In a movement which combines desperation with lethargy you root around for the source of your torment. Crying. Cutting. Despairingly you give up, leaving the beast to ravage your delicate head. Piercing. Penetrating. Wreaking havoc in the haze of your mind destroying what comfort is left. Screaming. Squealing. You lie back and groan, praying for it to end.

It stops. Mercifully the answer phone takes pity on you and fields the call. Relieved at your deliverance from the ringing you listen to yourself politely ask whoever is calling to leave a message, Never mind that inside you're cursing them for the pain they just put you through. It strikes you how much you hate your voice. Too reedy.

You listen as your supervisor tells you with a nonchalant air that you're not welcome at the soul sapping hole you used to call work. In your addled state, this seems like a good thing. The realisation that this means you have no money won't hit you for a good few hours.  In the meantime you can sink back, blissfully to your quilted shrine, relishing the freedom from the bondage of work.

You're slowly dragged out of your comatose state by the terrible voice requesting a message once more. Whoever called you this time doesn't leave a message, tantalizingly concealing their identity from you. No doubt it is one of your awful friends, calling to gloat over whatever you did last night. The fact that they felt the need to call about it does not bode well, whatever you did must have been exceptional.

You are tempted to reach out from the bedding and find out exactly who it was that had made the pitiful attempt to communicate with you, but it is not enough to make you feel prepared to face the vicious cold. It would provide amusement later. For now, however, you take the chance to doze off once more.

You slowly come back to sentience, God knows how much later. You uncurl yourself from the huddled mass. You lie back, staring at the ceiling, not thinking, hovering on the edge of logic. Aeons pass. Slowly your thoughts gather. What reason was there to get out and subject your body to the harsh elements outside your sheets? Finding out about last nights antics from the idiots you call friends does not make the spiteful world seem worthwhile. With no job, there's no reason to get up. You drift away once more. Why bother?