John lay in bed wondering if he could get away with a sick day. He didn’t mind the job but it was hard work. His mouth was dry. He opened his eyes but the little sun that was trying to break through the crack in the curtains was enough to hurt them. He returned to complete darkness. He turned over and lay on his stomach, his head buried deep into the pillow. A dozen feeble excuses wandered through his mind. None were viable.
Reluctantly, he turned over and sat up in the small, single bed. His eyes cooperated better the second time of asking and his small bedsit gradually came into focus. He rummaged his hands through his red hair. He tried to vigorously rub the remnants of sleep from his eyes and only managed to push an eyelash into his left eye. It watered and stung like hell. He lifted his eyelid and looked up at the ceiling. It did the trick, the pain rescinded. He reached over and grabbed his jeans and shirt, eager to stay off the cold ground. The carpet was old and worn, showing the bare concrete in places. He pulled them on and swung to a sitting position by the side of his bed. He rubbed his head again. His feet rested on his shoes lying on the ground in front of him. He pulled on his socks, then the boots, neglecting to lace them. He glanced at the small alarm clock on the bedside cabinet and realised that he had three minutes to spare.
The Breakfast Factory (Extract)
