The fan whirs in my black room. It sounds like tyres squeaking on slick ground.

It doesn’t quite distract me from my irrational fears. The ones that live under my bed and come out to play at night, like the shoemaker’s elves. Except that they aren’t as cute and instead of pretty footwear, I wake up the next morning with a headache.

In the harsh morning light, which usually comes from the yellow street lamps, the fears scuttle back to hibernate. I potter around, drinking black coffee and making annoyed faces at the world.

The rest of the day is a blur.

And repeat.