I have no fight left in me

A work of fiction in response to The Daily Post writing prompt, ( Y A W N ).

She woke up to the sound of dripping rain outside. Unlike most people, she is not tempted to go back to sleep. She knows her duty and she must not go back to sleep. She slouch to the bathroom. She feels like her age has finally caught on to her. She used to be excited of the quiet morning before everyone is awake, now she dreads the quiet of it all.

She pull out her white raincoat and her maroon umbrella. She walked under the rain. With each passing car, her energy is revived once more. She continued her sleep in the bus. It is going to be a long ride, due to the heavy rain. She was glad of it, although it means she will show up late at work.

She worked like everything comes second to breathing. She like her job; she used to hate it but someone said that humans are very adaptable, so it is either she actually came to like her job because she genuinely liked it or it is simply because it is the only thing she knows for the past fifteen years or so.

She thought to herself, could it be that she is entirely made up of different composition than others or is it that nothing interest her anymore? Had she gone incredibly bored of everything in life that everything just felt like a mechanised thing to her? Others are excited about going back home from work, and yet she dread it. Silently she wished that she would have to work late; not because she liked it, she just don’t want to be home. Home felt like a wasteland. Everything there does not excite her anymore. Everything bores her to no end.

She went inside her room. She took a quick shower. She sat in front of her desk. Today is the day. She would finally fought back the boredom that is her life. She knew that comes tomorrow, she would not have the energy left to fight her boring life. She knew many would hate her for the decision she makes, but this is her life. And, truth be told, she had no fight left in her to make it anymore exciting or less boring than it already is.

She weighed her options; the knife seems to be too messy, the rope is too troublesome for she is too short to reach the ceiling even with the help of a chair; should she go for the pills? Probably she could go during her sleep? She counts the pills on her table. She was measuring how many pills she would need when there was a knock on her door.

“Mum, I’m making fried rice. Would you like some?”

“No thanks, sweetheart. I’m tired. I’m just going to sleep.”

“Would you like me to give you a massage? Or come and sit with me for dinner? We could have a talk.”


She was counting her pills. She heard a knock. She heard a question. She shake her head. She heard an offer. She blinked out tears. She threw her pills back in the bottle. 

“That would be very nice. Go and prepare your fried rice. I’ll come in a second.”

Life is boring. Who would not agree about that? But, I’m a soldier. And soldier march on. Maybe that should be her mantra, she thought to herself as she decides that there should never be any talks of not having a fight left. She’s a soldier, she will always have a fight in her, however small it is.



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