The Day I Gave Up

I blink my eyes open. One of them only opens a halfway – no matter how hard I try. I look around. My hope for it all being a dream flies out the closed, dusty window as I see and feel that I’m still where I was last night.
I close my eyes and let my head fall forward – my neck stretching uncomfortably.
I open my eyes again and look down at the concrete floor. The dark cracks haven’t changed. They keep looking wet and fresh – as if the damaging water keeps running through them.
My pants haven’t changed either. They’re still dark – darker than they were when I put them on. And it’s not because of the darkness that fills the room.
I don’t even remember how long it’s been since I put them on. I’ve lost all track of time – and of space.
I look down beside the worn, wooden leg of the chair and see a sandwich on a plate. The plate is broken – a chip missing – and the sandwich looks dry.
I can see my chest moving. It’s easier to see this when I look off to the side. Part of the chair disappears with each inhale, and reappears with each exhale.
My chest is barely moving. My breaths are short and shallow.
I close my eyes to tear them away from the uneaten sandwich and turn my head off to the other side.
My neck hurts. So do my shoulders. My back is aching and my butt is numb. I can’t feel my legs anymore.
I open my eyes and see my cell phone on the table in the corner. Its sleek, black design looks out of place in the dark, grimy surroundings. Dust is flying everywhere and I can feel it scratching against my lung walls. The air is cold, but never seems to cool down my moist skin – my soaked clothes. The red bricks are turning brown, as if the color in them is draining – trying to escape the room.
I’ve tried to escape. I’ve tried to reach for that phone so many times that I’ve lost count, but I’ve never succeeded.
So I give up.
I give up on reaching my phone and dialing 911. I give up on calling for help – hoping that someone will hear me. I give up on trying to pry my hands out of the tightly tied rope. I give up on getting up and walking away – chair or no chair on my back. I give up on anyone ever finding me. I give up on ever getting out.
Today is the day I give up.
I roll my head back down and hang it low. I stare at the floor again. The dark cracks seem inviting – understanding.
I give up on ever being found. I give up on ever seeing my friends again. I give up on ever performing again. I give up on ever hearing a cheering crowd again. I give up on ever hearing those words being returned. I give up on ever hearing the words being said with the tone of voice I want them to be said with. I give up on him ever finding me and returning that feeling.
Today is the day I give up.
I give up on letting my breathing return to normal. I give up on letting my heart beat at the same rate as any other. I give up on letting my brain send signals to my body – telling it to stay awake.
If I knew that he loved me, I’d hope. If I knew that he felt the same, I’d fight. If he’d ever loved me that way, I’d never give up.
If I’d never loved him, I’d given up a long time ago. But today;
Today was the day I gave up.