The light was blinding as it broke through the skylight, the morning sun burning his skin as it did every morning since he moved into this new apartment. He groaned as he rolled over, resenting the fact that he lived there, that there was no way to block the light. He wanted to sleep forever, because when he slept he could forget, but every morning the piercing light struck his face like a perfectly aimed punch. A blow to wake him from his slumber, to knock him back into reality before he could take one last breath, one final gasp of happy air. No, that was not his life now and it would never be again.
They called him Buzz. That was not the name his mother gave him, for then he would be called Andrew, but he could not remember the last time anyone had called him Andrew. They called him Buzz because he was always humming some tune, some long forgotten melody. Singing got him through the days, no matter how long or how short, it was all he had left that could bring him happiness.
The squeal of Buzz' alarm clock was even more unwelcome than that of the unforgiving morning sun. 7:00. Every day except for Tuesdays, his day off, the alarm squealed at seven. His missed being woken up by a tender touch, the alarm clock could not even compare the the waking nudge of a lover. But that was not his life now, and it would never be again.
Buzz reluctantly sat up in bed and brushed his chestnut hair out of his eyes with his forearm, looking for a pair of boxers to put on. He tried to blink the slumber out of his head, but it did not work. Only the slamming of the front door by his roommate brought some life into Buzz' face. 7:08. Every day Buzz' roommate Jeff slammed the door on his way out to catch the 7:14 train to the subway stop five blocks from his office. He clocked in each day at 7:25, five minutes early, and clocked out every day at 5:35, five minutes after his day was over. Jeff would only take a ten minute lunch, his time replaced by the extra ten minutes added to each work day. To say Jeff was neurotic would not be exactly proper, but Buzz does not shy away from thinking it each morning when the door slams. Buzz and Jeff grew up on the same block, but if one were to say they were friends, another might suggest that that person had gravely misspoken.
They called him Buzz. That was not the name his mother gave him, for then he would be called Andrew, but he could not remember the last time anyone had called him Andrew. They called him Buzz because he was always humming some tune, some long forgotten melody. Singing got him through the days, no matter how long or how short, it was all he had left that could bring him happiness.
The squeal of Buzz' alarm clock was even more unwelcome than that of the unforgiving morning sun. 7:00. Every day except for Tuesdays, his day off, the alarm squealed at seven. His missed being woken up by a tender touch, the alarm clock could not even compare the the waking nudge of a lover. But that was not his life now, and it would never be again.
Buzz reluctantly sat up in bed and brushed his chestnut hair out of his eyes with his forearm, looking for a pair of boxers to put on. He tried to blink the slumber out of his head, but it did not work. Only the slamming of the front door by his roommate brought some life into Buzz' face. 7:08. Every day Buzz' roommate Jeff slammed the door on his way out to catch the 7:14 train to the subway stop five blocks from his office. He clocked in each day at 7:25, five minutes early, and clocked out every day at 5:35, five minutes after his day was over. Jeff would only take a ten minute lunch, his time replaced by the extra ten minutes added to each work day. To say Jeff was neurotic would not be exactly proper, but Buzz does not shy away from thinking it each morning when the door slams. Buzz and Jeff grew up on the same block, but if one were to say they were friends, another might suggest that that person had gravely misspoken.
