This headache had been torturing me for about an hour now. I looked up at the blinds, which still didn't show any sign of the sun, but I got up anyway. As I sat there, legs dangling over the edge, my hand automatically reached for my cane. I left my hand hanging in mid-air and lowered it again. Darn thing. I reached out once more and grasped the handle. One by one, starting with my pinkie, my fingers bent around it. I got up, preparing myself for the massive pain it brings me each morning, but didn't feel anything. Maybe my headache is so severe I can't even feel my leg. My feet shuffled over the floor on my way to the sink. I got myself a glass to fill with water and looked up. A weary old man stared back at me. His short greying hair messy, his eyes sunken and full of grief and sorrow, enough for a lifetime. The dark circles underneath betrayed the short amount of sleep he'd gotten the past few nights. A stubble was noticeable on his bony jawline. Slowly, I raised my hand and stroke my fingertips against it. Look at this, this is pathetic! I shook myself out of my thoughts and filled my glass. Ignoring the mirror on the wall, I walked back to a small cabinet next to the old blanket covering the thin mattress, which was supposed to be my bed, and reached for the shaver in the top drawer. My revolver lay in front of it, but I shoved it aside. As I started shaving my stubble off, my eye caught sight of the shiny ebony-coloured weapon, but I decided not to give it a chance of bringing horrid memories back and closed the drawer at once. The inside of my head was still throbbing heavily and I couldn't think straight. I traced my cheeks in order to check for any stubborn hairs I had missed and found quite a few, to my great annoyance, and straightened the baggy skin. It was only after numerous tries my skin was smooth, apart from the wrinkles and the looseness. I took a sip from the water and closed my eyes as I felt the cold liquid travelling its way down to my empty stomach. When the cold, tingly feeling had passed, I turned around to the socket in order to pull the plug out and put the razor back where it came from. I only realised I would have to open the top drawer again when I rolled up the cable. I took a deep breath and pulled on the handle, bolted to the cabinet, and saw it laying there. The weapon with which I had killed. The Afghan war had taken many of my friends. 5th Northumberland Fusiliers was everything I had and now I'd retired. Subconsciously I picked it up and moved my hand up and down, as if I were to weigh it. I had to build up a life again, but I can't afford an apartment on my own. Sunken in my thoughts I didn't realise the sun had starting peeking over the edge of the horizon, but when I saw my shadow fall in front of me, I got up and closed the drawer, after having placed my weapon back in there. Looking at my cane once more I stepped away from the bed. I took my phone from the table and clicked the home button for it to light up. Actually it wasn't really my phone. I'd gotten it. As a present. The only thing I really owned. Friday 29th of January, 07:47. One message: "Don't forget to write about your day." She wanted be to write about everything that happened to me. Nothing ever happens to me.