A shrill sound tore through the darkness and with it tore through my slumber.
My eyes snapped open.
For a few minutes, I couldn't move. My chest rose slowly as I stared up at the ceiling above me, trying to remember where I was… and what had happened. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside and the persistent ringing coming from somewhere beside me. Nearby I left open a window, and a cool breeze drifted lazily through the apartment, brushing against my damp skin and carrying with it the distant sounds of morning traffic.
Meanwhile, the ringing continued—shrill and piercing—dragging me slowly back into the waking world.
"Trrring… trrring…"
The shrill sound echoed from the corner of the room outside the bathroom, bouncing faintly off the walls as it kept repeating, almost stinging in my ear.
As my mind slowly clawed its way back to full consciousness, my eyes drifted sideways.
Broken glass.
Shards scattered across the bathroom floor, reflecting the dim morning light in sharp pieces. Dark stains of dried blood smeared between them.
Right next to where I was laying.
For a second I simply stared, my mind struggling to process what I was seeing.
"Ugh", I let out a sigh, declaring my unwi
Yet the phone didn't stop ringing.
It vibrated again somewhere in the living room, the sound rattling through the apartment.
"Trrring… trrring…"
I pushed myself away from the ground and made my way toward it, stepping carefully around the shattered glass, trying not to loose my balance.
"Shit… just shut up."
At the point I haven't realized, but my voice was notably deeper. Smoother.
Almost… soothing.
Navigating the floor was harder than it should have been.
I tried to step carefully around the minefield of shattered glass, but the haze hadn't fully lifted. My foot came down wrong — right on one of the larger shards.
The crack echoed through the small bathroom as the glass splintered further beneath my weight.
Sharp Pain shot through my foot almost immediately.
I hopped toward the door frame, grabbing it for balance, to examine the damage. A thin sliver of glass peeked out from my heel. I pulled it out with a wince, watching a bead of blood well up in its place.
The phone kept ringing.
"I'm coming, damn it!"
I stood, testing my ability to put weight on that foot. It hurt, but I could walk. I limped through the apartment, leaving a trail of small red footprints behind me.
The pizza slices on the coffee table were still there, uneaten from last night. They looked exactly as I'd left them.
Stiff.
Cold.
Sad.
Similar to how I was lying on the bathroom floor moments ago. Like I always am, really just about anything that I do was, like that slice of pizza…
…Lifeless.
"Trrring… trrring…"
The phone rang again.
I grabbed it with a firm grip — too firm, but the sound had worn through whatever patience I had left.
Pressed it to my ear.
"Y—Yes?"
My voice came out wrong. Staggered.
A sharp voice answered immediately. Not angry, exactly. Just pressed. Concerned in that way people sound when you've inconvenienced them.
"Where are you, Mr. Martin?"
I blinked.
It took my brain a moment to place the voice to a person.
"It's twelve," the voice continued, each word carried its own irritation. "You were supposed to have class at nine this morning."
The school secretary.
Of course.
For a moment I just stood there, staring blankly at the wall.
A dry laugh escaped me. I dragged a hand across my face and through my hair, pushing it back in one tired motion.
What else had I expected?
No one else ever called.
It was either the school… or the pharmacist on the corner, letting me know they had restocked something I had asked about the last time I stopped by. Whatever it was I planned to dull myself with that week.
That was about the extent of my social life.
No one really cared.
If I died in this apartment, it would probably take weeks before anyone noticed. Maybe my elderly neighbor's dog would start barking at my door after a while. Dogs always noticed things before people did. The smell would eventually reach the hallway.
That would be how they'd find me.
Not that I had anyone who would come looking in the first place.
My head still felt thick. Foggy. My thoughts refused to settle into anything useful. They drifted around slowly, like loose papers caught in a weak current.
Probably the remnants of whatever I had taken last night.
Dextromethorphan, most likely.
Just enough to take the edge off things. To quiet the noise in my head for a few hours. It was convenient that way. A cough syrup you didn't even need a prescription for.
But with a high enough dose…
It helped.
"Twelve…?", I slowly pulled the phone away and looked at the screen, as I reluctantly answered.
12:03 PM.
My stomach sank.
Five hours?
I had been out for five hours. I was supposed to have a full day ahead of me today. Well… I guess half of that was gone now anyway.
"Oh… shit," I muttered into the phone, more to myself than to her.
"Well, yeah — shit indeed," the secretary replied, her voice tight with irritation. "Look… if you're sick, then at least call next time. You clearly don't sound fine. Just get your act together, or else—"
"I'm sorry," I said quickly, cutting her off before she could finish. My voice came out hoarse, softer than I intended. "Really, I am. I overslept. It won't happen again."
There was a short pause on the other end.
I knew exactly what she had been about to say. I didn't need to hear it. The sentence had been dreading over my head for years now, waiting for the right moment to fall.
Or else we'll have to reconsider your position here.
Something along those lines.
And honestly, they wouldn't be wrong.
There was never a real reason for a science—oriented school to keep a music teacher around. Not unless someone insisted on it.
And someone had.
Junya Kikuchi.
Five years ago.
Two years after my mother killed herself, Louis had convinced him to give me another chance. A place to start over. A place where I might, supposedly, find some kind of purpose again.
Back then I told myself it was kindness.
Looking at it now, it felt more like an apology.
I'm sorry I can't do more.
Still… the job stuck.
It was one of the few things that managed to drag me out of this apartment every morning, whether I liked it or not.
"I'm on my way," I added, trying to sound more awake than I felt. "I'm not sick, I promise. I'll be there soon."
"But your voice, you clearly are—"
"I'm fine," I insisted, though it came out more tired than convincing. "Just…. I'm already getting ready, alright?"
Another pause.
Then a quiet sigh from her side of the line.
"Just hurry, Mr. Martin."
"I will. And… sorry again."
I ended the call before she could respond.
The apartment fell quiet again.
Weird, isn't it?
Why insist on going to work?
A man like me — someone who drinks cough syrup just to feel a brief, artificial rush. Someone who probably shouldn't be anywhere near teaching children. Or anyone, for that matter.
And yet I kept showing up.
Day after day.
Even on mornings like this.
Why bother?
Why, no matter how much I sabotaged myself, could I never quite bring myself to stop going there?
I couldn't quit.
Maybe it was the last thin thread of humanity left in me, clinging desperately to something that proved I hadn't completely fallen out of the world yet.
Or maybe I was just too much of a coward to let go of the last thing that made me look like one.
A human.
My phone clock showed 12:04 now.
The next bus was supposed to arrive at 12:07. It came every thirty minutes, and the ride to the school usually took around twenty minutes. Knowing that, there wasn't much time to waste.
I grabbed my black trousers still hanging over my "not dirty but not quite clean" chair, then reached for the brown faux—leather jacket that used to belong to my father. I pulled on a white polo shirt lying on the kitchen table, still slightly wrinkled, and didn't bother fixing it.
No time.
As I hurried to the door, I grabbed my wool hat and scarf, and ran outside to catch the bus. The elevator in the building had been broken for ages now, so the stairs were the only option, sadly the old metal doors still hung there like a decoration for a machine that no longer existed.
Cold air drifted through the concrete hallway, as the stairwell door creaked open.
Usually I would take them slowly, one hand on the railing, already annoyed before the day had properly begun. But today my feet carried me down almost without effort, my steps light against the concrete.
My body felt… different.
Lighter.
What's more; I was too stressed, too focused on the time to really notice, but my foot didn't hurt from the glass splinter anymore.
By the time I reached the bus stop, my breathing was still calm.
I slowed down, looking up the street.
Nothing.
I sighed and leaned forward slightly, running both hands through my hair.
"Fantastic," I muttered to myself in dry irony.
The bus was nowhere to be seen.
Another morning.
Another day where I missed the bus.
The strange thing was—there were other people standing at the stop beside me. A small group of them waited quietly under the grey winter sky, hands tucked into their coats, glancing down the street every few seconds like they were expecting something.
Then a few stepped forward toward the end of the sidewalk, leaning slightly to look around the corner to the left.
I followed their gaze.
And there it was.
A bus slowly rolled into view from around the block.
I blinked.
I wasn't late.
I was early.
That realization sat strangely with me for a moment.
The bus pulled up to the stop with a soft hiss of brakes, and the easiest explanation presented itself immediately: the clock on my phone was probably wrong. That seemed far more reasonable than assuming I had somehow become faster overnight.
That kind of thing simply didn't happen.
Not to me nor to anyone.
It was simply not possible.
Nonetheless, as I stepped towards the bus with the others, a small thought lingered at the back of my mind.
For that wasn't the only thing that had changed.