No Mercy

             Sitting, staring…entranced.  The harsh metal coils of my mattress have no mercy as I start to notice the subtle cracks of paint on the dull, white wall of my studio apartment across from me.  The pathetic single light bulb hanging from the ceiling starts to dim out, as I sluggishly place the glass on my nightstand and touch the cold rim of the bottle to my cracked lips, stinging.  As I make an effort to get up and turn off that mumbling, flickering light in the corner of my eye, I notice my navy blue scrubs lying over my one chair in the kitchen area, clean, organized, and ready.  I remembered how I used to be such a clean freak, so was she; she would have made a great mother.  I waited for a tear to trickle down from my pale, dead face, but it was too long ago.  This time I didn’t stumble through the dark for the corner of my bed so I wouldn’t hit it, and I didn’t.  I lie again on that cold, harsh mattress and drift away.

By: Vassili Fassas









by: Jared Chado