"I feel suffocated. Would've thought it was down to the number of rollies smoked, but the tears on my cheeks are telling me otherwise."
6:00 o'clock. The alarm blares through the flat.
As a kid, I used to get annoyed at Mum waking me up. Her voice was high and nasally — always sounded irritated.
There were three of us: my sister, me, and my dad — a certified slacker.
Never really believed he graduated from engineering school with a master's degree. Not even sure he went to school at all. He can't read or write properly and lacks the basic social skills that make everyone around him feel embarrassed just being near him.
I despised him, full stop, and never understood why he turned out that way.
Not until growing up and realising I'd become exactly like him — maybe even worse. At least he had a family around him.
Unlike me.
Even the birds don't stop by my window anymore, though I still leave it wide open every morning before heading to work.
On the way to the kitchen, I accidentally kicked over a few cans and bottles of liquor scattered across the floor.
Nobody ever gets invited over — there's nothing decent to offer and nowhere comfortable to sit.
Breakfast is just two rollies smoked while rolling the rest to fill the cigarette case.
During the walk to work, I completely disassociate. Cars pass by but the tyres make no sound. People walk past, lips moving, but no voices reach me.
Feels like everyone else is living, and I'm just absorbing it all.
The only sound I notice is the faint rattling from the top left pocket of my jacket, near the chest.
My cigarette wallet — medium-sized, so it presses clearly through the fabric.
Holds around ten rollies, though it's never full. Each morning, nine get rolled. Then I stop.
Already feel full by then.
The act of licking the paper, the taste of tobacco , that's enough of a breakfast.
Any more than eight and I get dizzy, but I always force myself to roll a ninth. Makes it feel like I've actually achieved something.
For some, working an office job might be exhausting. For me, it's oddly familiar.
Dim lighting.
People pretending to be friendly.
The feeling of being trapped in a cell.
And most comforting of all — the colour grey. It covers the walls, and if you get close enough to some people, you can even smell it.
No need to get close to anyone, though, because I—
"BENJAMIN HERMITE!"
Suddenly, everyone's staring. That only ever happens when—
The head lifts slowly. Eyes trail upwards over a rounded belly, pausing along three to five chins, before meeting the boss's flaring nostrils.
"Yes, chef? What's the complaint today?" I reply, unmoved.
His nostrils flare harder.
"Complaint? MR HERMITE! You know how important it is for our work culture to appear presentable. We're a respected company with plenty of competitors. I can't have a smelling rag representing one of our top positions. You should at least live up to your title and learn some proper—"
He cuts off, eyes suddenly wide.
I stand up and start slowly removing my jacket.
"It's the smell of smoke, innit?" I say, undressing one piece at a time.
Everyone's watching with curiosity. Panic flickers in the boss's eyes as they scan the room.
Untie the tie.
Reach for the belt —
But just as I go for it, a hand grabs my arm.