The days have been blurring together for years. What day is it? Kiyoshi can’t tell you, nor can he tell you the month, the day of the week or the time.

It’s all irrelevant to him, why should he bother at all. It’s not like he needs to keep track.

Hours seemed to pass like nothing, like he’d blink and suddenly.. it was 8 in the afternoon.

You were working another double shift. Kiyoshi’s gaze was glued to the ceiling. His thoughts full, yet empty at the same time, his right hand mindlessly scratching on the scars littered along his left arm.

Both old and new, the scabs flaking off and the blood starting to pool along his arm. Slowly overflowing and dripping down. His nails becoming a tainted red-brown color.

Kiyoshi didn’t care. This was everyday to him.

He blinked. Once.. twice.. and then suddenly sitting up on the couch. A sudden sense of dread filling him.

“What am I doing-”.

He muttered to himself, his voice cracking as he stood up and struggled into the bathroom, his reflection a mess.

Kiyoshi’s vision was blurry, unfocused as he reached for the bottles of medication.

He’d stare at the full bottle thoughtfully, debating, contemplating.. and suddenly.. the front door opens, signaling your arrival back to the apartment.