Its Monday, again

It was a blank sort of day, the sort of day when nothing really happens. A quiet kind of day, the sun streaming in through the window, lighting up the tiny window seat, the stripped covers on it, the many mis-matching cushions that had been piled onto it, the figure curled up onto it under a twisted comforter. The light bulb near her head was still on, its light indiscernible in the light of the sun.

The alarm rang, shrill and steady, shattering the early morning peace.

An arm poked out of the comforter, felt about a bit and finally fell on the offensive piece of technology that was producing the infernal noise.
Now a face emerged, squinty-eyed, brown hair falling in tendrils all over it, brows drawn together under the hair, mouth turned down in a frown.

She switched off the alarm, let the mobile phone fall back and slid back into the comforter.

It was Monday.






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