“Can’t. No energy to blink.”  I don’t even know how I managed to get the phone. He keeps trying to cajole me. (Where the hell did that word come from? Apparently my vocab works when the rest of my brain is barely functioning.) I wait for him to give up. Or at least wonder if I’m still listening.

“Bri? You there?” I don’t answer. “You just breathed.” Nothing. “Stop playing, I know you’re there.” I fake a snore. It takes everything I have left. “Quit it, Bri! I get it, you’re not coming. I will face the monster alone… again.”

“Be nice,” I warn. I can’t manage much more than those two words.

“You hate him more than I do!” he protests. He’s got a point. I do hate him. But that’s irrelevant, because I’m not going. Even if I wasn’t this tired.

“I’m utterly drained,” I say, aiming for pretentious aristocrat but probably landing much closer to druggie in need of a fix. I close my eyes, then force them open again as a cloud settles in my mind, muffling sounds and blurring edges. My head slowly falls to the side, and I jerk it back up.

“You’re not even gonna remember this conversation tomorrow, are you.” It’s not even a question.

“What conversation?” I think I mean it as a joke, but I’m so fuzzy in the head, I really don’t remember what we were talking about. I close my eyes again, and this time they remain closed. It feels so good to just give in. Wait, aren’t I supposed to be doing something? Oh, right. Sleep….

*****

Sunday Scribblings is a blog run by Meg Genge and Laini Taylor that posts weekly writing prompts. This is a piece of fiction. I like writing in first person, that doesn’t mean it’s about me.

If you haven’t seen it yet, take a look at my previous post: Help Mark Pay for Surgery