Music

He woke up. Music was blaring from the clock radio. He glanced at the clock – 7:30. He looked around the bedroom. Everything was the same as the previous evening. His gaze lingered on the window. Dark clouds completely obscured the sky. The sunlight struggled to penetrate, making the room dim.

He rolled over, saying to himself, "It's going to rain soon." And at that same moment, raindrops fell on the windowsill.

The radio was still playing old songs that had once been hits, now forgotten by everyone. Lying on his side, he pulled the covers up to his chin and wrapped himself more tightly, even though the bedroom wasn't cool at all. He began to plan his day. He thought for a long time, but finally realized he had nothing to do today. He would have to get up, look around, and see if anything was missing.

He got out of bed. As his feet reached the floor, something cracked in the small of his back. He clutched his back and hissed. He took a deep breath, stretching his arms upward. His feet searched for slippers lying near the bed. They found them and slipped into them a moment later.

He stood up. He went to the coat rack by the door and put on the robe hanging there. Scraping his slippers a bit on the floor, he went to the bathroom for his morning routine.

Shaved, washed, and refreshed, he returned to his bedroom. He made the bed, straightened the pillows, and straightened the clothes on the nightstand. There was no noise from the hallway yet, so breakfast would be a bit late. He briefly considered heading to the dining room, but quickly abandoned that idea. He began changing. He opened the wardrobe, pulled out his pants, belt, undershirt, and shirt, and placed them on the bed. He went to the front door and locked it to prevent anyone from entering at an inopportune moment. He took off his robe and hung it on a coat rack. He returned to bed, took off his pajama top, and put on his undershirt. The bottoms weren't as easy. He sat on the edge of a chair and began to pull off his shorts. It was difficult, afraid to bend over, which might cause a disk to pop out. He fidgeted for a moment, but finally managed to remove the rest of his pajamas. Putting on the pants was a bigger challenge. He leaned forward as far as he considered safe. He lifted his right leg and tucked it into his left pant leg. He was slightly irritated. He lowered his pants back to their original position and made a second attempt. He succeeded. He straightened to catch his breath, groaned slightly as he bent down again. He tucked his other leg into his pants. He stood and pulled them back on. He zipped up his fly, but didn't put on his belt yet. He still had to put on his shirt. He liked that one best; the blue one with the yellow flowers didn't match his cream pants at all, but it fit him perfectly. He put his left hand in first, holding the shirt at his shoulder while his right hand tried to grab it behind his back. Something cracked slightly under his collarbone, and a quiet sigh escaped his lips, but the shirt didn't quite reach his grasp. The radio continued to play, straining out music worn out decades ago.

He leaned slightly to his right, and the fingers of his right hand began to wave a little desperately, trying to grasp at least the sleeve. He finally caught it between his middle and ring fingers, and a moment later he had it in his grasp. Twisting his arm, he put on his shirt. He was flushed with exertion and panting, gasping for breath. He buttoned himself up elegantly, tucked his shirt into his pants, and began to tuck in his belt. This task came to him remarkably easily. Once dressed, he walked to the door and turned the key, then gently turned down the radio. The familiar hum of breakfast echoed in the hallway.

After a meal and being praised by his sister for dressing himself, he sat down at the desk where an old-fashioned typewriter rested, put on his glasses, thought for a moment, and began typing:

"It was the last day of school. Graduation. Karol arrived quite early, looked around the auditorium of his high school..."

He paused; he had written this line of his autobiography several days ago. He muttered something under his breath, pulled out a piece of paper, crumpled it, and tossed it toward the wastebasket—he missed. He fed a blank piece of paper into the machine and started over:

He woke up. Music was playing from the radio alarm clock. He glanced at his watch – '7:30'. He looked around the room. Everything was the same as last night. Only in the corner he noticed a bit of dust that hadn't been there yesterday. He lingered on the window for a while. Dark clouds covered the sky. Drops of water were visible on the glass, and the rain was pattering calmly against the metal roof tiles. The radio was still playing. It was tuned to a station that played 'young generation music'. He didn't like it. The bad music promoted hopeless new trends in pop culture, and the presenters seemed always to be in a rush. He lay there, listening to the gibberish coming from the radio for about ten minutes, then turned it off. Last night he had finished the first volume of Fyodor Dostoyevsky's 'The Brothers Karamazov' for the second time. Today he wanted to start reading the second volume. He looked at the title page, learned the name of the translator, glanced at the footnotes, finally opened to page seven and began reading the first chapter of book seven, part three. He read about what happened after Father Zosima's death. He saw Alyosha wavering. This hero, like Charles, needed a miracle to believe in Providence. A miracle was necessary in his life, though he had never experienced one. So he doubted, had doubted for a long time, just as Alexander Fyodorovich had doubted for a moment. He read two chapters and put the book aside. He got up and went to the bathroom. When he returned, he picked up a notebook and a pencil and said to himself, "Now I'll write something." Not long ago, he promised himself he would never write again, but his resolve wasn't as strong as the need to draw a line on a blank page. Lying on his stomach, he pondered what to write. Ideas swirled in his head, but some weren't worth breaking a promise, and the rest were beyond the young writer. Finally, a concrete idea emerged. He took a deep breath and began writing:

"He woke up. Music was coming from the clock radio..."