This is a nightmare, and I know it by heart.
I awake in a small room, the dilapidated ceiling fan rattling above me. Coldness bleeds through a drafty window with dirty panes. The apartment shakes as the elevated N Train trundles past outside.
I live this nightmare every day. I can’t summon the strength of will to rise from my aged mattress. Nothing’s waiting for me beyond this dingy room, not even food in the fridge. All that’s there is a half-eaten can of salsa and collard greens I bought when I was mentally healthy, thinking I’d one day make a meal out of them.
Ah, the folly of hope.
Kyla? Kyla!
Kyla? Kyla!My mind’s buzzing, playing tricks again. I allow myself to drift into the hazy zone between sleep and wakefulness, focusing on ideas for my as-yet-unpublished book series. My brai
