The Marmalade Cure

It's pitch black. It's dark. And I can't breathe. Why am I here? Where am I? Panic has gripped me into a chokehold so bad, I know it will kill me. Then the green dials of my alarm clock reach out to me as a saviour from my bedside table. I take a moment to reorient myself. I'm not dead. Not yet. But I will be. I just know. I know it with as much certainty as I know that my alarm clock wasn't placed at this spot before I slept. I know it was tucked under my pillow, to muffle its shrill sound, just so I could get a few more precious minutes before breathing my last. Iam Adrian. Tomorrow I will be dead.