I’ve been staring at the same spot on the wall for three days. 

Not three days consecutively, of course. That would be crazy. It gets dark at night, and that makes the spot hard to see. And then I close my eyes for a few minutes, or hours. But when I open them, there it is again. 

I wonder if it’s paint. Or ink, maybe from another tenant? I’ve lived here for five years, so it’s got to be older than that. I didn’t do it, or at least I don’t think I did. There’s a possibility it happened in the beginning, when I first moved to the city and felt like my life was just beginning. Before …

My bedroom window is just across from my bed, so when the sun is setting, the dusty orange bleeds into my bedroom, painting the walls. Sometimes, I like that. But lately, I’ve been thinking about getting blackout curtains because I hate when the sun reminds me that it has done its job. Rising and setting while I’ve been sitting here, staring at the same mystery spot for 72 hours.

Mom called. I didn’t answer, but I listened to her voicemail. It’s full of careless cheer, telling me that she misses me, that she hasn’t heard my ‘lovely’ voice in weeks. Because in her mind the fight that set this whole thing off, the spot staring, the dull pain in the chest, that fight didn’t happen. To her, it is just another day in October. 

Your father wants you to come over tomorrow night for dinner, he wants to talk about some of the things you mentioned. 

Mentioned. That’s an interesting way to say yelled. To say ‘your father wants to talk about the plate you threw at the china cabinet’. ‘Your father wants to talk about how you said we’re horrible parents and you wish you’d never been born’. He wants to discuss that, huh? 

I wonder how much of my deposit I will lose if I paint my room black. 

I lay against my pillows and watch the sun clock out again. Day four. I know that on the other side of this is me dancing in my car to my favorite song, laughing with my friends and eating my favorite dinner. There is light at the end of this, but it never feels like it. And each time, the black is blacker, the light is further away. 

I’ll get through this. I always do. Just because it’s harder this time doesn’t mean it won’t end. 

The spot is gone now, washed away by the night. I take a deep breath. I clench my fists, digging my nails into the palm of my hands until I puncture skin. This will end. My eyes are shut tight and I turn to face the wall, covering myself with my blanket until I’ve blocked out everything around me. I picture myself waking up, happy to see the light.