Marcus had become very familiar with the ceiling of his bedroom over the last few weeks. He had memorized every detail. Like the peeling paint in the far left corner, or the strip that was a completely different colour. Why it was a different colour was a mystery, probably an abandoned painting project from the previous residents. The strange yellowish stain in the middle of the ceiling was also a mystery. One he didn't really want to solve. These are the kinds of things one commits to memory when they spend most of their time in bed, staring at the ceiling. 

The young man's gaze was quickly drawn away from the ceiling as his phone started ringing. He jolted upright and lunged over at his bedside table, yanking the charging cable out of his phone, only to be disappointed by the caller I.D. Dejectedly, he slumped back down on his bed and stared at the ceiling again, letting the phone ring out. He only wanted to talk to one person. The one person who was definitely not going to call. A few moments after phone stopped ringing, the text message tone went off a few times. Marcus sighed and reached over to his phone to check the messages. He had several missed calls and unread messages from several people. Specifically his mother, and his best friend Chris. The most recent was from the latter. Most of the texts said roughly the same thing. 
[i]'Dude, you okay?'
'Answer your phone.'
'Check your damn phone.'
'I'm worried man. At least message me.'
'Okay, fine, I'm coming over to make sure you're not dead.'[/i]

Marcus let out another sigh, before replying to the message.
[i]'I'm not dead. Just want to be alone. I'll call you later.'[/i]
It was a lie, he didn't want to be alone. But he didn't want anyone to worry about him. And he didn't want to leave his bed either, but, he realised he was going to have to, sooner or later. After a few more moments of staring at the ceiling, he rolled out of bed. Being careful not too step on the take away containers and beer cans that littered the floor around his bed, he ventured out of the fortress of solitude his bedroom had become, and made his way to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a while. His shoulder length hair was messy and knotted, and his face was covered in a thin layer of facial hair that he normally kept shaved. He spent a few more moments staring at the shower, something he had not used for a lot longer than is considered healthy. He didn't want to, but the smell that he emitted was bad enough that he was even starting to disgust himself. After another minute or so of silent deliberating, he forced himself into the shower. 

He slumped against the cold tile wall, and slid down into a seated position, resting his head on his knees as the warm water washed over him. He sat like that for a while, just letting the water fall around him. After about 20 minutes, he lifted his head, and groaned as he forced himself to his feet and grabbed the shampoo. He spent another few minutes actually cleaning himself. It was way harder to make that small amount of effort than it should have been. Regular people with regular jobs and regular minds do this every day without too much hassle. But even the smallest task seemed monumental to him. Although, even if everything seemed to hard, and it almost hurt to force himself to make the effort, as he stood in the bathroom wrapped in a towel, he actually felt a little bit better. Not by a lot, but at least he felt clean. 

It was another hour before he forced himself to get dressed, digging through his floor-drobe to find a clean pair of jeans, his A Day To Remember T-shirt, and a jacket. He wasn't sure why he was bothering to get dressed, but making a small amount of effort actually lifted his spirits a bit. Made him feel like he accomplished something. Even if it was just something people should do every day without a second thought. It was then when he felt his stomach grumble, and remembered he hadn't eaten in about a day and a half. And of course, his apartment was bare of anything edible. He was going to have to brave the outside world. For the first time in nearly two weeks. Luckily, his apartment was walking distance from a good little café, that also happened to be across the road from the music store, so win-win.

As he waited for his coffee and bacon and egg roll, something caught his attention. Someone started playing guitar outside the music store. And they were good. Really good. Marcus nearly wandered over there without his food, before his name was called and it snapped him back into focus. "Thanks." He muttered with a forced smile to the barista as he collected his coffee and roll, and wandered across the street to the guitarist. He kept his distance, but stood and watched, sipping at his coffee. The use of the drum machine added something different, gave the song a drive it might have otherwise lacked. That was something Marcus needed to try himself, he decided, once he could afford a drum machine.