A Few More Minutes Won't Hurt

Early-May approached, and I had ten graphics done. Of course I wanted them to be perfect, more than anything. This was our passion project—how would I ever forgive myself if I fucked it all up?

My phone pinged, likely another reminder from my group mates that I had to get my part of the research document done by tonight. To focus on schoolwork, I stayed after school in the library with my tablet out. My topic was about some case or other that was important to economic relations…or something. It’s not as if I ever planned to run a business, so why did it matter to me? The value assigned to money was arbitrary! Work was fake! God damn it, let me focus on this RP!

I still couldn’t stop myself from having our lore document open in another tab as I chipped away at a condensed list of Glasselia’s nations. Curses.

“Mr. Castro? Hm. What’s that?”

I’d never snapped the cover over my tablet harder in my life than when Mr. Fisher approached. He stood behind me by the time I looked back, but if he saw what I was working on, he probably didn’t get a good enough look to comment on it.

“It’s homework,” I said. I waited to see if he would leave, but instead, he sat across from me in another seat. I angled my tablet away from him, opened it, and immediately switched it over to the assignment I had to finish.

“What are you working on now?” Mr. Fisher pulled a notepad out with a pen. “I’m supposed to be a tutor for the next hour. I can’t do your work for you, but I can give you some pointers.”

“Don’t need any,” I said and turned back to my tablet. I had nearly fifteen sources open and only half a page ready when I needed six exactly. If I was in college already, I’d surely be dead under several twenty page assignments.

“That empty document says otherwise,” he said. “When is that due?”

Stupid spying tutor. “Next Monday.”

“Four days from now?”

“Yes, okay? It’s complicated, I have to stretch these six questions out about this stupid case and there’s no way.”

He tutted. “You do realize that you’re supposed to do one page for each question. You should start reading through the actual case documents. It may be difficult, but if you give yourself the time and schedule it in chunks, it’s doable. Though at this point, you can hardly afford the luxury.”

“I know,” I mumbled. None of the sources were looking at the actual case because I didn’t want to comb through that monstrosity, but with reluctance I searched it up. If I pushed, I could get it done before I had to leave. Reading and writing quickly were my forte under pressure—it just took a lot for me to feel that pressure. “I’ll be able to handle it.”

Mr. Fisher paused. He tapped his pen against the surface of the table, then sighed. “That’s good to know, but because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

“Are you telling me not to do my schoolwork?” I said.

“No, of course not,” he said. “I’m telling you not to push yourself.”

In that moment I became conscious of the bags beneath my eyes. I’d noticed them that morning after I had to stay up until 4 AM to get half those graphics done, only to deny myself an after school nap by forcing myself into the library for as long as possible.

I brought a hand up to my face to cover one of my eyes.

“I’m not that tired,” I grumbled. “I just look like this.”

“You didn’t look like that last week,” he said with a disapproving frown.

“People change from week to week, shocking!”

He began to click his pen. “I’m not going to argue with you. Please get some more rest at night—for your own health. The less sleep you get, the more it impacts your ability to function, so the best approach is efficient scheduling combined with rest.”

There was no point in replying to his lecture. I leaned in closer to my tablet. Deep down, I knew he was right—I was exhausted, and my lack of energy made every sentence I typed feel like a monumental effort. At the same time, I had no idea where to start. It was hard enough to focus, and I had so much I promised to do this weekend that I’d have no time to finish my part if I didn’t do it now.

Coffee. Maybe I should go to the nearby coffee shop instead.

Better than anything rest could give me right now.

I got a few extra shots of caffeine to put in it just in case. Thanks to that delightfully sickening beverage, I finished all six pages and sent it to my last group-mate to organize it all. When I returned home, I was far too awake to sit still, so I drafted half of my college essay, hated it, then sat down to work on NPC graphics at…

5 AM.

And I still wasn’t tired. Checking Eclipse, I noticed a few notifications from our planning group chat. Most of it was progress updates I didn’t have much of an opinion on, but the last few…

dropsgum: Maybe something like Through The Looking Glass would be a nice title!!
dropsgum: Glasselia already has a weird kinda fairy tale feel to it so that would really hammer in the vibes!!
dropsgum: What do you guys think?
rainDrips: Sounds good to me.
rainDrips: @TowersFall When you’re online.

…

TowersFall: snds god
TowersFall: gooddg

My hands trembled. Without rhyme nor reason, my heart was overcome with a sick veil of envy, like heavy fog that choked my vision in a way where the world showed me only the little I was allowed to see. As I read back on the chat, that feeling grew thicker and thicker until it felt like I drowned in it.

Looking back at their work, it was inescapable. The two of them were so efficient. They posted updates, they consistently replied to opinion requests—while I took hours and unhealthy amounts of coffee just to work on one assignment I should’ve started weeks ago. Why couldn’t I work like they did?

What the hell was wrong with me?

I tried to push those thoughts away by focusing on my graphics project, but now everything I made looked so…wrong. It was so half-assed, the aesthetics were random, and none of them looked as cohesive as what dropsgum made.

A few more thoughts of self-doubt later, I was in the bathroom splashing water in my face. It was just because I was tired—usually I was fine about my work. Any creative who was worth their salt had an eye for flaws, but I never thought I could get that self-critical.

Normally, anyways. Maybe the lack of sleep was amplifying my usual doubt into super doubt.

Since I had two hours until school, I resolved to lay down and sleep, but that plan was dead in the cold unforgiving waters when I exited the bathroom and nearly ran into my father.

I froze in front of him, braced for the lecture he was about to give me for being awake.

…instead, though, he clamped a hand on my shoulder. With a stern glare, he said, “Go back to sleep. It’s late.”

He then let go, turned around, and hobbled back into his bedroom. Something about his walk was off—no matter the hour, even when I’d woken him up at an absurd time, he’d always react with more energy. Energy channeled into anger, sure, but energy nonetheless.

Yet now, he walked like a zombie. I thought to say something, but I clammed up.

I’d screw it up. Just like how I was going to disappoint everyone else in my life with my lack of worth ethic. I could never communicate well with my father, and that wouldn’t change now.

In a similar, half-dead fashion, I turned back to enter my room and collapsed into bed.