The sunlight trickles through the open windows, and particles of dust dance and spin in the morning light. And I can't stand it. As I pull the shade, the walls start creaking again. My door doesn't have a lock anymore, so I carefully push the dresser in front of it. I dont need to see them anymore; I dont need to be cheered up. I may be lonely, but I'm content too. As I contemplate opening that bottle of poisonous fermentation, the wall paper cracks and peels away. It won't be long now.

It cost $3.26 for a gallon of milk, and $10.00 for half a gallon of vodka is it not appropriate? I said I'd never drink again. Im not going to mix it with orange juice anymore: The taste is becoming of me. The walls are twisting and groaning as plaster dust falls to the wooden floor. Half the bottle is gone, and the remorse seems to ripple a little more thickly now. The bottle has one of those no-mess caps like on salad dressing bottles, for the drunken man on the go, I suppose. I can feel it a little better now, that wall of stone and fear sobriety hides from me.

I can't drink anymore. The world has turned up side down, and all this death smells like cheap vodka. As the walls crack and explode inward, I lie down and rest on the wooden floor. As usual, from the remnants of my room comes the flood. Like a waterfall with no source, or bodies buried in sand. This is mine, this flood, this sand, this guilt. It pours onto me. I am covered completely.

And I rest.

This is the way it always is. Shutters pulled tight, door barricaded, walls cracked and broken. And me, resting in my solitude, sleeping in my flood, lured into sleep by my own guilt.

Suddenly, the sands part above me and my rest is disturbed. Please. Please. I need this. I cannot endure the circumstances while wakeful. Whose hand is this that slips into my flood, which disturbs my rest of rotting?

But as I recognize the hand, troubled thoughts gently settle over me. This is mine. I am not supposed to be fearful here. Insecurities are not supposed to thrive so easily here. Not here.

The hand is pale and delicate. The fingers are long and slender, and the nails are painted burgundy. Im not sure how it passed through the sand so easily, when nothing else ever could. Please. She. Her hand. Reaching. Please. I cannot, I've never had to, not once have I moved or uttered a single word beneath my flood, my sand, my home. Please. She is salvation. Please. I need this. She will rescue me. She has to. Please.

Mere Despair cannot combat desolation, thus I am bound beneath the sand of my flood. As the hand silently pulls away, I slowly relax and close my eyes.

And I rest.