The Erosion of Day

But while the nights were paradise, the days were becoming a grey hell.

Vera sat in her studio apartment, staring at a half-eaten bagel. It was 2:00 PM. The sun was streaming through the dirty window, but it felt dim. Washed out.

She looked at her hand. It seemed translucent.

"Vera?"

She jumped. Her friend, Jenny, was standing in the doorway.

"I've been knocking for five minutes," Jenny said, looking concerned. "Are you okay? You look... faded."

"I'm fine," Vera said. Her voice sounded scratchy, like a recording played on a loop. "Just tired."

"Tired? You're sleeping all night, aren't you? You said you met a guy."

"A guy?" Vera frowned. She struggled to remember Silas’s name. It felt slippery in the daylight. "Yeah. Silas. He's... rich."

"Well, eat something. You're losing weight."

Jenny left. Vera looked at the bagel. It tasted like cardboard. The water she drank tasted like dust.

She tried to work on a restoration project—a 17th-century oil painting. But the colors looked dull. The red wasn't red enough. The blue was grey.

Only the night had color. Only the night had taste.

The debt was paid. Vinnie the Wrench had stopped calling. Her landlord had stopped knocking. But Vera felt like she was paying a different kind of interest. She was being hollowed out.

She looked at the clock. 4:00 PM. Eight hours until midnight.

She sat in the chair and stared at the wall, waiting for the only time she felt real.