The man wakes before the sun.
Not from purpose. From noise.
Not the kind that wakes others—
this one only he hears.
He dresses slowly, with clean hands.
The suit is gray, but not tired.
The tie tight, but not choking.
He looks like he has somewhere to be.
He usually does.
People greet him.
He nods, says fine when they ask.
Sometimes he smiles.
He has practiced that smile
in mirrors, in bathroom stalls,
in rearview reflections between red lights.
He does the work.
He answers the phone.
He shakes hands firmly.
He remembers birthdays
because forgetting them makes people worry.
Inside, the sound never stops.
A dull thrum. A whispering static.
Echoes of Colombian jungles.
Heat. Sweat. Fear.
Cracking bones beneath boots.
The cold stares of boys too young to die
and too young to have killed.
But they did.
He did. And they died. Crucified.
He dreams when he doesn’t drink.
He drinks when he doesn’t want to dream.
The pills make his mouth dry.
The memories don’t ask permission.
They come anyway. Every. Fucking. day. Forty years . And it’s like yesterday.
Sometimes in line at the grocery store.
Sometimes in the shower.
Once, during a meeting.
He felt the panic ride up his chest
like a wave that didn’t crash.
Just rose and stayed there.
He held the pen tighter.
He nodded.
He breathed through his teeth.
No one noticed.
They rarely do.
There is a drawer in his nightstand
he opens when the silence grows too loud.
Not for long. Just enough
to remember it’s there.
He doesn’t want to die.
But he doesn’t always want to keep waking up either.
He told a friend once.
The friend said,
“But you’re always so calm.”
He laughed at that.
Laughed hard enough it hurt his ribs.
At night, he lies in bed,
not sleeping.
He counts ceiling tiles,
imagines what peace must feel like.
Not joy. Not happiness.
Just silence.
And sometimes,
he writes letters
he never sends.
And sometimes,
he stands in the shower
and lets the hot water scald his skin
because it’s the only thing that feels real.
He survives.
It is not heroic.
It is not brave.
It is just what he does.
One more day.
Then maybe one more after that.
Broken Author 