I awake. It’s 5:36 AM and the minutes are counting forwards. Tic toc tic toc – and I’m just lying here whilst each second a person is born or dies somewhere in the world. The mornings’ lazy hazy frequently makes me contemplate about eerie stuff.
I should get up but my bed has somehow manifested my body with its fluffy marshmellowness and refuses to let me go. “You’re mine now,” it whispers.
“Please let me go,” I sigh. I promise to come back in the evening.” Oh, my mornings are such soap operas.
I’m in a complicated relationship. With my bed.
I’m pondering about the hot cup of chocolate I could make myself. The thought is rather alluring. However, my bed emits this fuzzy warmth which makes me melt into my sheets. “You belong to meeee!” laughs my bed and sucks me deeper down.
“I actually have work to do,” I say.
“Yes. Become a bed tester,” mocks my bed.
I indolently open a news site and scroll down the feed. I scan the headlines. It feels like they’re shrieking into my morning face.
“Massive arson in high-rise block. Happening in London right now!”
“Trumps minister calls Russian rumours ‘terrible lies'”
“Man falls down a scaffold and dies.”
All these events are occurring whilst I’m just lying here in my abuse relationship bed. In fact, reading the news makes me tedious. I close my eyes again and merge into my bed. “It’s okay. You can have me.”
