When the alarm clock rang for the third time, I opened my eyes.
There was a long, thin crack in the ceiling, extending from the edge of the chandelier to the corner of the wall, exactly the same as it had been ninety-nine times in the past. The angle of light coming through the curtains, the frequency of wind noise from the air conditioner, the smell of oil fumes from the breakfast stall downstairs - every frame is so accurate that it's nauseating.
I lay there like a corpse for three whole minutes.
The first time I jumped up in fear, thinking I hadn't woken up from the dream. On the 10th time I started smashing things, breaking my phone and cup. The 30th time I calmly sat back on the bed and started recording the pattern. For the 50th time, I cried for two hours on and off, then wiped my face and went back to work.
After the 80th time, I did nothing.
Just lie down. Wait. Like a programmed machine, waiting for the body to automatically complete the process of getting up, washing up, going out, going to work, getting off work, sleeping, and then opening your eyes again.
I raised my hand to look at the time - 7:03. Business as usual.
