25th December 2003
I woke up from a heavy slumber, the kind that left me groggy and disoriented. It wasn't like me to sleep this deeply. I'd always been a light sleeper, hyper-aware of every creak in the floorboards or the wind rattling against the window. These days, though, exhaustion claimed me the moment I closed my eyes. No amount of coffee seemed to help anymore. Perhaps I'd built up a tolerance, or maybe it was the weight of age settling into my bones.
I sat up, running a hand through my hair as I scanned the room. It felt...cleaner somehow. The way the pale morning light hit the walls, how the shadows stretched neatly across the floor—it all gave the illusion of order. But in truth, I knew it wasn't any cleaner than usual. I'd tidied up last week, taking the time to clear the clutter, stack the books, and wipe down the surfaces. Yet, for some reason, the space felt unnaturally pristine today, almost as if it had taken on a life of its own while I slept.
My eyes fell on the desk. The papers I'd meticulously arranged were still in their stacks, untouched. The books on the shelf were exactly where I'd left them, and yet they seemed to sit with an unsettling precision, as though someone had come in during the night to straighten them by fractions of an inch.
It wasn't just the room; it was the air itself. Crisp and still, it carried a faint scent of lemon polish, though I hadn't used any. The quietness pressed against my ears, broken only by the distant hum of a Christmas carol wafting through the window.
Something about the scene unsettled me. Maybe it was the way the dim light exaggerated the room's stillness, making it feel like I was intruding on a photograph of my own life. Or perhaps it was the realization that, no matter how much effort I'd put into cleaning, the room would never truly feel like mine.
I swung my legs off the bed and let my feet meet the cold floor. The sensation was grounding, a sharp contrast to the strange perfection of the space around me. Shaking off the unease, I reminded myself it was Christmas morning. A day for joy, for celebration. And yet, the gnawing feeling that something was just a little off refused to leave me.
As I stood up, my joints creaking in protest, I reached for the glass of water on my bedside table. It was lukewarm, but it didn't matter. I gulped it down, hydrating my smoked, baked, and borderline-burned organs—an act of gratitude to my body that I seldom indulged in. For a moment, I felt a flicker of clarity, as though my body was thanking me for the rare kindness.
My eyes wandered across the room and landed on the plate of cookies I'd left on the table. Half-eaten, their once-crisp edges now softened slightly by the overnight air. I remembered nibbling on them absentmindedly the day before, their sweetness doing little to stave off the weariness.
The night before had been as unremarkable as the rest. Bread and steak for dinner, washed down with a glass of refrigerated rum. The rum was cheap, the kind that burned more than it comforted, but it did the job. I'd eaten in silence, the hum of the refrigerator my only company, before heading to bed without so much as washing the dishes.
My refrigerator had always been modest, stocked with the basics and little else. Eggs, bread, some meats, instant noodles, a carton of milk, and a few vegetables that were well past their prime. Enough to keep me going but not enough to inspire any culinary adventures. It was a fridge of necessities, practical and uninspired, much like the rest of my life.
I glanced back at the cookies, their broken halves a reminder of my haphazard approach to indulgence. Even my attempts at treating myself were half-hearted, as though I didn't believe I deserved it. The thought lingered as I stared at the room, now bathed in the pale glow of morning.
It wasn't just the room or the fridge—it was everything. My entire existence felt utilitarian, stripped down to the bare essentials. And yet, there was a strange comfort in it, as though I'd built a fortress out of simplicity to shield myself from something I didn't dare confront.
I poured the cold milk into a small saucepan on the stove, watching as it warmed, the faint steam curling upwards. It wasn't much, but it would do. Once it was ready, I poured the milk into a cup, broke the leftover cookies into pieces, and stirred them in. The softened crumbs floated to the surface as I took my first bite, the sweetness a quiet reminder of the simplicity of my routine.
Coffee and Cigarettes. Cassandra Cottingham. The two Cs that seemed to dominate my mind these days. One brought a fleeting sense of joy, a momentary escape from the monotony of life. The other? She was a constant storm, a riddle I couldn't ignore, no matter how hard I tried.
I took a long sip of my milk coffee, the bitterness mingling with the sweetness of the cookies I'd dunked into it. My gaze lingered on the cigarette pack lying on the table, a quiet invitation. Lighting one would complete the ritual, my small rebellion against the weight of my thoughts.
It struck me, then, the irony of it all. Cigarettes and coffee brought me comfort, grounding me in their predictable familiarity. Cassandra, on the other hand, was chaos. Dangerous, unpredictable, and utterly intoxicating in her own way. Where my two Cs soothed, she unsettled, twisting my thoughts in directions I didn't want to go.
I chuckled dryly at the comparison. It was both ironic and humorous that the Cs in my life couldn't be more opposite. Coffee and cigarettes were simple pleasures, but Cassandra Cottingham? She was a labyrinth, a black hole of intrigue that pulled me in no matter how hard I resisted.
She was an enigma, a breathing mystery to be solved.
It was difficult not to think about her. She was like the aftertaste of strong coffee, lingering long after the cup was empty.
I stepped outside onto the terrace, taking in the view of my small apartment from a different angle. Bathed in sunlight, the space looked almost presentable, its flaws hidden by the golden glow. The walls, worn and stained from years of cigarette smoke, seemed less oppressive. But I knew the truth. The light was temporary; once night fell, the cracks and stains would return, more visible than ever.
I sighed, my gaze drifting back inside. I'd been meaning to call a professional cleaner. Someone who could tackle the junk I'd accumulated over the years and maybe, just maybe, scrub away the smoke stains on the walls. It wasn't just about the apartment, though. I wondered if, in cleaning the space, I could scrub away something deeper—something in me that clung to the past like those stains on the walls.