Inkster of the Week: James Lawson

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My curtains were slightly open, casting a thin strip of light onto the opposite wall. I would like to imagine the light woke me up, but truthfully I had watched it slowly creep along my floor to where it is now. I sat up to check my phone - 7 am. Without really trying to fall asleep, I laid my head back on the pillow, pretending I didn’t have to get up.

The air in my room was cold. All my windows were closed but after years of rusting in the ocean air, that didn’t mean much. Despite the briskness, I didn’t hurry over to put on my clothes. Between just waking up and dreading the day to come, energy was scarce.

My clothes were in a heap in the corner. They were due to be cleaned up but, until it became impossible to find anything, they would stay there. Near the bottom of the pile I found a white shirt. It had a small red stain but, when tucked in, you probably couldn't see it. As always, after a brief look around the room, I couldn’t find the tie I knew I had tried to put somewhere obvious the night before. Instead, my eye caught the pile of unfinished homework sitting on the desk next to me. I told myself I’d finish it tomorrow, knowing I would say the same again then. I finished getting dressed, spending more time struggling with my cuffs than I did for the whole rest of the outfit, and made my way downstairs.

It was warmer downstairs; the fire was burning and the windows weren't quite as unkempt. My parents were in the kitchen preparing their breakfasts. I wasn’t hungry. Instead, I tried to duck away from the kitchen before they could offer me food.

“Morning, Patrick,” my mum cried.

“Morning,” I mumbled back, now more tired than before.

“I made you breakfast,” my dad added.

“Coming,” I said, dragging myself into the kitchen.

“You better eat quickly,” my dad said, gesturing to a bowl of cereal on the table, “Grandma is waiting outside.” I glanced at the clock; 7:30, one hour until the funeral.