The blackness of slumber lifted and she stretch to greet in the morning, but quickly recoiled. She hurt: her head hurt, her neck hurt, her shoulders hurt, her back hurt, her arms hurt, her hands hurt, her hips hurt, her knees hurt, even right down through her feet. Lying on her side, curled up in the foetal position, she shut her eyes and wished for the blackness to return and take the pain away. But there was no comfort and no more sleep. Time to rise, she guessed, and confront the day.
Yet another day. Sitting cradling a mug of coffee, it was time for the next daily ritual. The cardboard boxes lined out in front of her, she opened them one at a time. Two tablets from that box, one from this. Gulping each down with a swig from the mug. They helped, she was certain of that after missing the plethora of starch buttons, but only to take the edge off her misery.
It would probably be a further two hours until she had the strength to move and take on the day, until then she made herself as comfortable as possible on the sofa and turned her attention to her laptop. Silly applications and games are what she took on to pass the time. To think a year ago she was sitting exams for the final year of a degree, something that she couldn't contimplate now; most of the time she didn't even know the day of the week.
Forgetfulness, the fog that encroached on everyday being, accompanied the pain and lethargy as sure as salt goes with pepper. There was no escaping it, the cloak of grey that hung like a curtain blocking out continuity of thought. So what did the day hold. A diary was a must. Everything listed, from the housework to highlighted appointments that mustn't be missed. It didn't mean she'd do it that day, but then she had her life and nothing was that important.
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