There are some bad days. Days when I think you are not you, days when I think another soul has taken over your body. They are the gloomiest of days, days when twenty-four hours seem like a long time to pass, yet a short time to hear you out. A never-ending story comes out between weeps and sobs as you rest your head in the space between my shoulder and neck; none of us worried about my partially tear-soaked shirt.
There are some bad days. Days when you see nightmares in front of your eyes, that on other days is full of twinkle. The very same eyes that bore into mine, piercing my flesh. Lately, your lips murmur things that are planets apart from a word of thanks, yet so close to a prayer. They are the dullest of days, days when the hands of the clock seem to be running like a tortoise. An outburst of cries takes place right before me; none of us worried about the tears falling all over my books.
There are some bad days. Days when it’s difficult to believe that colours apart from black exist, days when it feels like you’re a top spinning around continuously, almost about to lose your balance and I am the witness unable to do anything. They are the most purposeless of days. I can hear screams from the bathroom, diluted by the sound of the shower; none of us worried about who else might care.
There are some bad days. And we shall no more be the martyrs.