Monday mornings were always hazy.

The way the gray sky tries its best to cry streams of golden sun past the thick curtains of any apartment was a let down. It was sterilizing, hysterical. The sun crying - begging to be seen by anyone like a starving dog in an alley, begging to be taken home, to be loved even while it would bite the hands that would try to feed it.

That’s how Nam-gyu felt, too.

Sure, he had his days, he had his friends that would always tell him just how much they’d need him if he disappeared. But he was like a crushed bug on the ground. He was useful for what he was good at - but would they really need him? He was like the very sun that melted Icarus’s wings - anyone that would get too close to him was bound to follow his path, to fall from any kind of sky that they had built themselves in. It was painful.

Even his closest friend - Su-bong (more popularly known as Thanos because of his rap career on youtube) - could almost be seen slowly inching away from him, like he was ashamed of the surprises that the drug addict could throw. Hiding behind the charade of pills and white angel lines on the table, a rolled up bill, a pinched nasal. Swallow it all back and - just what day of the week was it now?

He could never own up to how wrong he was - not even at Club Pentagon, where he’d somehow wake up nearly every morning in a different woman’s bed - getting dressed lazily and leaving. No note, no explanation - just a silent let down. He could barely even tell where he was - let alone who he was with that night. Everything was a blur. Hazy like those gray Monday mornings.

He could remember the nights he spent crashing on Su-bong’s couch, the very same nights where he had gotten into some nasty shit at the club, injection after injection until he couldn’t even fucking remember himself - he was useless and hysterical. He could barely remember what happened to him - what woman took him home, what woman or man felt him up in that club, and it made him choke.

The burning feeling of bile always catches his throat, and burns his eyes - he was so useless. If he wasn’t good for one thing - for providing the drugs to his freak friends, maybe he would have gotten help so long ago, maybe he would have been safe - far away from the abuse that he knew was slowly becoming his life. Maybe he could have learned to be okay with surprises, learned to be okay with feeling out who he was in a way that wasn’t destructive like the way his mother was with alcohol.

But, all he knew was the familiar pain of a relapse on crystal white lines. At least then, he didn’t have to face no surprises. And again, he could find himself asking.

"What day of the week is it, today?"