Break Free & Be Broken Read Online Free PDF

greedy for sleep. I got more than enough of it. I should feel fine! I will act as though I do.
    My mood is darker than even the deepest gutter outside, and the truth is, I know why. It isn't a result of yesterday’s weakness or my tired mind; those are merely symptoms of the underlying disease. It's because today is a day of reckoning, and I find myself with nothing to give.
    You see, three years ago, in a broken hearted fit of rage, I made a certain promise. I vowed to myself, the earth, and the heavens, that by the time I reached the age 27, I would have made something of myself, and if I didn't... well, then I promised I would rid the world of my bedraggled presence.
    Here I stand at the ripe age of 27, and here stoops my life: a frail, shabby freak, hiding in the corner, doing its best to remain in shadow and outside the gaze of Judgement's eye. But it sees you, old friend, and you most certainly are not what I promised you would be.
    Happy birthday, old chum! Happy birthday to you! You promised to end this, let's see if you do!
    Goal of the day: kill self.
    I stop dead and eyeball the thought, then shake it away like I shake the clinging hands of sleep. What in the fuck was that garbage? This is just a regular day, Chales, just like any other. I commit to myself, right here and now, that I won't think about my promise of suicide again. It was a stupid promise when I made it and the fact I am giving it any energy at all is asinine to the extreme.
    I’m nearly to the kitchen when I notice the unusual hindrance of excess clothing. That's right. I was too damn lazy-too damn weak!- to change last night. I throw down my pants and claw off my shirt, letting the buttons either rip off or come undone on their own. I care not either way.
    I hustle back to my room and, with eyes squeezed shut, turn on the light. Even under the shelter of lids, the light is harsh on my pupils. I force them open; force them to deal with the circumstances they are in. Grudgingly, they make the appropriate adjustments, bringing the finer details of my room into focus. A bed. A desk. A dresser. No useless decorations on the walls, and certainly no mess on the floor. I throw on some shorts, throw on a tank top, and now behind schedule, get on with the day.
    I trot back to the kitchen rather than walk to compensate for wasted time. Tick tock goes the clock, always and forever. I quickly drink my damn, fucking, shitty ass water, taking no pleasure in the usual sensations.
    Good lord... Just stick to routine, stick to routine. I'll make it through this, whatever may come. I just gotta stick to routine.
    As I storm from the kitchen to prepare for my run, a foreign thought hits me: I should probably check my phone. It takes me a minute to remember where it is. I'm not even sure why I still have the thing. Other than the random check in call from old friends, people don’t contact me, and I never contact them.
    I search out my phone and flip it open. There’s a missed call and voicemail to match, both from my boss. Memories of bailing on the job last night come swimming back to me as I click on the voicemail and bring the phone to my ear.
    I wonder if I’ll be fired.
    I wonder if I’ll care if I am.
    "Hey Chales. It's Mark. Gary said you weren't here when he showed up for his shift last night. Hope everything is all right. Give me a call back if you aren't gunna make it in tomorrow. Thanks pal."
    "End of messages. To delete, press..."
    I let the phone fall into my lap, feeling a vague sense of bewilderment. Damn. I guess this means I have work tonight.
    Autopilot kicks in, and I fall back on the basics. I check my watch: 5:12. Shit! I should already be out the door! I cast all strange thought from my dome and get moving. The only thing I should be thinking about right now is running. Running is easy. It's just one foot in front of the other, again and again and again. It's what... Thursday? So I'm running the Thursday route... but the Thursday route