by Rashmi Vaish
Sunlight trickled down the cotton drapes and collected in a little pool on the nightstand. She winced as the bright crack of day jabbed at her eyes. Her mind, still battling misfiring neurons in a wasteland of dying serotonin, was buried too deep under cover to react. She propped herself up on her side, took a sip of water and stared at the sunlight, gaudy and obscene in its shiny happiness. “Screw it,” she muttered and pulled the sheets over her head again. Oblivion, thy name is comfort.
Rashmi Vaish wades through her thoughts with the occasional entry in her virtual notebook. She hopes to one day grow up to be a real writer.