I open my eyes to the sight of the cracked ceiling. The anger rushes back to my head and I squint against its ferocity, pounding, pushing, making my temples throb. My hands and feet curl inward, gripping the weight of emotion.

I turn my head to look at him. He’s motionless, mouth open, gaping at the intricate workings of the ceiling overhead. I nudge him in the shoulder, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t recognize that I’ve been here, waiting for him to come out of his mind fogged state.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly against the silence. I can hear every deep inhale and exhale he takes. He’s trapped somewhere in his mind by the drug. I want to kick, hit, scream and claw my way into him and free him, but its no use.

I sit up, the room spinning wildy against me. My foot kicks over the plate full of dried leaves and ash and I just stare at the dissentigrated fragments of his good time.

And then, as I wash the smoldering speckles down the sink, I realize that we’re all fragments of something.

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