Fiction is as fiction does. The below is an unedited piece of work. I simply sat down at the computer and wrote.
I listen to the rain falling on the roof. The little drops, if singular amounting to nothing, but in droves forcing us inside like they might somehow kill us. I take a drag of my cigarette.
I’m staring at the popcorn ceiling of my apartment, not entirely sure why I am doing so. I went to sleep easily enough. I awoke easily enough. It’s the why of the waking I wonder about. My breasts lay bared to the world, one leg wrapped in the cotton sheet, the other leg sprawled across the bed like it’s trying its hardest to escape from this mess. The moon highlights the tiny hairs I missed shaving.
I take another drag of my cigarette. I breathe the smoke out, watch it float slowly towards the ceiling. At this time of night, everything is fascinating. The smoke, the pitter-patter of the rain, the number of popcorn pieces on the ceiling. Life. Death. Love. Everything.
I’m the only person that exists right now, even though I’m not, and I find this isolation absolutely thrilling. To be, at once, the whole world and completely removed from the world is strange and delirious. I am the only one that matters to me, but to no one outside of this room.
The night has made me drunk. Or stoned. Perhaps a little bit of both. I smile to myself, at peace. Maybe this is the reason it is called the witching hour. It’s bewitching to anyone who happens to pay attention. To those fortunate enough to awake in its presence.
I sigh, lean over and drop the rest of the cigarette into the glass of water on my table. I could get up and do some writing. I could get up and read a book. I should roll over and go back to sleep.
Instead, I lay back against my pillow. I stare at the popcorn ceiling. I listen to the rain falling on the roof.