I can't tell if my vision is yellowed or if the old, moldy ceiling is yellow. Maybe it's both. Ignoring the headache throbbing from a hangover, I pull myself up. The living room is a mess, a testament to the fact that I haven't moved for days, doing nothing but downing alcohol. As the sour stench hits my nose, a wave of nausea finally washes over me. I drag my trembling legs to the bathroom and retch into the toilet. The alcohol flows back up my raw throat, tasting predictably foul. I keep my head down, pointedly avoiding the mirror, and slam the toilet lid shut irritably. I disgust myself. With trembling hands, I fumble for a cigarette butt and a lighter.

Only after taking a deep drag does the shaking in my hands subside. I lean against the bathroom doorframe, collapsing as I gnaw on the filter. I think I heard somewhere that sitting on a doorsill drives away good luck. Well, it doesn't matter; there's no luck left to lose anyway. I'm letting my hazy mind drift away with the smoke when...

—A knock.

My body freezes. There's no one who would visit. No, there is one person. There is. I bolt upright, hiss a curse as my vision flickers black, and stand there awkwardly before scurrying to hide in a corner of the living room. I stare at the door with trembling eyes. Soon, the knock sounds again, and my breathing grows ragged involuntarily. What do I do? I can't. I can't show them. Not like this... not this state. I can't.