The alarm clocks ringing so much louder than it should be. I’m sweating buckets. I’m completely engulfed in him. Another morning just the same as any other. I’m not getting up today, what the fuck is the point? I’m meant to be a traveller, meant to be seeing the world yet instead I’ve been stuck in this dreary fucking apartment, if you can even call it that, for the past 5 months. I wasn’t looking to make a change in my travels or anything, not help anyone or any of that bull, I just wanted to see things that people don’t normally see.
I hate it here. The walls are practically coming apart, furniture would be a luxury in this place and my clothes are still all stuffed in my little rucksack. It’s a tiny smelly room that I’ve succumbed to calling home and I won’t have it anymore. I’m leaving, I’ve had enough. I don’t care if they come after me I refuse to live on fear anymore. What’s the point of living if you don’t get to live at all?
I’d rather die.
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Short Story / Travel
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