Friday: March 2, 2029
7:01 AM; CLINSTONE, MARTHA FRASER’S HOUSE, MASTER BEDROOM
Once upon a time, Martha Fraser had spent most of the morning sleeping, even on a Friday. She’d sleep well into the afternoon, wake up for lunch, write or edit for a couple hours—dependent on the client that day—eat supper, and go back to sleep.
But that had been once upon a time. She’d spent the last several days—weeks? months? she wasn’t entirely certain anymore—waking up at exactly seven o’one. It was routine now. It was part of her schedule now. Every morning, she slowly got used to it, even though it made her want to cry, even though it made her hate herself, even though it served as nothing but a reminder that she was responsible for, well… everything negative around her.
She hated that, but it was what it was.
Most mornings, she headed to the kitchen and made herself a bowl of oatmeal. Today, she headed outside instead.
Most mornings, she sat on the couch and watched whatever game show or cartoon was on television while she ate. Today, she got in her car and headed down town.
Most mornings, she shut off the television once she was done eating. Today, she parked outside of the apartment complex.
Most mornings, she downed a few pills with her water and headed to her tiny home office. Today, she climbed the stairs for the apartment complex.
Most mornings, she powered on her laptop and typed in her password. Today, she walked to the edge of the apartment complex roof.
Most mornings, she opened her email and checked to see what job she had waiting for her—writing or editing, dependant on the client that day. Today, she threw herself from the roof of the apartment complex.
Most mornings, she blared her music through her headphones to silence the voices. Today, her body slammed into a car and killed them on impact.
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