Every day is exactly the same.

I awake in a cold sweat, my head aching, pulsing with flashes of anguished faces and gore. The dreams mean nothing, they never have. I'm what you call a lucid dreamer. I'm more awake when I sleep than I ever was conscious; the only problem being that I also suffer from chronic night terrors, so you could also say I'm a bit of an insomniac.

I've tried everything to make them go away.

I head out of my bedroom and into the hall, where the temperature quickly elevates to a more bearable 90 degrees. I reach my kitchen leaving a trail of sweat to guide me back.

Every day is exactly the same.

I rummage through the cabinets for something not in a can, but only find condiments. There's a single half roll left and it's like biting a rock. The sliced bread is staleā€¦but at least it isn't green. I pull a jug of orange colored liquid out of the cooling box and pour some into a dirty cup. I swirl it around for a second and take it down in a single shot.

I put the clean glass back into the cabinet, the liquid back into the box, and quickly eat the slices of bread before I lose my appetite.

In the living room, a man I don't know is sleeping on my couch.

Every day is exactly the same.