I turned the key and opened my house's front door, stepping inside before turning to close it. Immediately, I noticed how stiflingly hot the air was; she had turned the radiators on too high. Again. At the same time, the unpleasant, droning noise of the TV met my ears; loud enough to be irritating, but not enough to actually understand what they were saying. Maybe that was for the better. It was probably some dumb reality program, anyway.

A tired, husky voice reached me soon after.

"Clean your shoes on the doormat, I just mopped the floors and don't want them getting dirty again."

I did as told, silently sighing at the words' cold indifference. One would've thought I would by used to it at that point, but I never quite was.

"Sure, honey," I tried, already knowing how it would go.

"Don't call me that," the voice deadpanned back, as expected.

"...Okay," I replied, cowed.

I hung my jacket on the rack, loosening my tie and undoing a couple of the buttons on my shirt. I was sweating already.

"You shouldn't put the heating so high, you're just throwing money away," I said, daring to voice my complaint. Not like it would do any good. It hadn't, all the previous times I'd said the exact same thing.

"What, do you want me to freeze to death?" the voice coming from the living room rebuted harshly, as always, not giving me the slightest bit of ground.

I sighed again.

That makes two times in about a minute. Oh well, I guess I'll get to expell some toxins through my pores, then. Just like in a sauna.

"So, dinner...?" I probed, already knowing the answer.

"Make it yourself."

Sure enough.

I went over to the kitchen, sighing for a third time when I opened the fridge. An almost empty set of shelves greeted me, with only a few half-empty sauces, an opened bottle of diet coke that had no doubt long lost its gas, a couple of eggs, some half-rotten fruits and a smattering of other dregs.

Wait, wasn't it her turn to do the shopping this time? Why didn't she? Actually, what did she even have for dinner? What a stupid question. Probably bagged chips or nachos from her stash, like always.

I briefly debated confronting my wife over it, but decided against it, knowing she'd just reply that there was food left still. She would have to do it eventually anyways, and I didn't want more pointless friction.

Not today, anyways. I was too sick of it.

In the end, I made do with a thrown-together fried egg sandwich with some lettuce. The bread was hard, and the taste bland, bleak, just like everything else in life. To get through it, I had to keep reminding myself it was better than starving, though I wasn't quite so sure about that anymore.

I sighed for the fourth time as I barely managed to finish the "meal". It wasn't nearly enough to sate me, but there was simply nothing else edible enough for me not to puke it back out.

Nutrients somewhat replenished, I walked towards the stairs, past the living room, where a mess of shaggy, unkempt black hair drooped from the side of the sofa, its owner most likely splayed on the other side, hidden by the backrest. As I got closer to the annoying sounds of the TV, I was able to confirm that she was watching a shitty reality show.

Of course. Not like there's any better use of her time.

I went upstairs to our room—which only I used anymore—with a heavy heart and a grumbling stomach. I also needed to go to the bathroom, so I immediately turned right after entering the bedroom, not sparing it a look, and walked into the en-suite.

After relieving myself, I washed my hands on the sink. As I did so, my gaze inevitably landed on my reflection, steering back at me through the mirror in front of me.

I sighed once more, for the fifth time perhaps, as I saw it.

What a mess.

My shirt was crumpled, sporting several faded stains left over from a poor washing, and from beneath the open buttons peeked out my scarce chest hair; not nearly bushy enough to be manly, simply looking pathetic instead, but noticeable enough to require shaving, which I'd forgotten to do lately.

Running my hand through my chin and cheek confirmed that something similar was happening with my beard—my recent lack of shaving had let an ugly stubble build up. Not that I couldn't simply tell by sight.

That, combined with my uncombed, messy, slighly-too-long hair and the dead look on my eyes, made my appearance look closer to that of a beggar than any kind of self-respecting working man.

It's fitting, I guess. Recently, I've been feeling a whole lot more like the former.

After finishing my depressing self-inspection and drying my hands, I walked out of the bathroom, and only then took in the state of the bedroom.

Looking around only served to make me even more dejected. The air felt stale; room hadn't been ventilated in days. There were dirty clothes strewn about everywhere, covering the floor either in piles or by their lonesome. The bed was a mess, not having been made for weeks.

Shit. What a damn pigsty.

I stumbled over to it and let myself fall on the mattress back-first. I looked up at the ceiling, blankly, wondering what even was the point of it all, anymore.

If there was even anything worth living for.

Then something strange interrupted my thoughts.