Stalker

DAWSON

The drawn curtains couldn't let in any light rays but I could tell it was morning. Another morning.

I let out a yawn and stuffed my face into the pillows, ready to brood and eventually fall asleep again.

It's been over a week and I haven't stepped out of my room as much. I only go downstairs for food and I'm back inside.

All I do is sleep, brood, eat and then I'm back to sleeping again. I've never felt this miserable and it gets worse with each dawn of the day.

The continuous beep from my phone right now, like every other morning, plunges me into a terrible mood.

With much reluctance, I reached for the phone. I had over twenty messages this morning. Fifteen of them were from Joyce. Five from Father.

I clicked on them, and as usual, Father had sent an epistle of advice on how I should be good and graduate with the best grades. Reminding me of the responsibilities resting on my shoulders and how the fate of the Pack depended on me. These words only leave me more depressed and