The bedsit is dark and stuffy, but he doesn't draw the heavy curtains. He's got no desire to see the grey skies or let in the watery sunlight, doesn't care to be reminded that there were people out there actually living their lives. Walking and running and dreaming nice dreams.
He pulls the laptop (cheap, but it does what he needs it to) out of the desk drawer.
The cursor mocks him with every blink, reminding him of all that he isn't.
Keep a journal, or a blog: it'll help if you write down all the things that happen to you.
Happen, his therapist had said. Not happened. The things that happen to John Watson, unemployed ex-military bloke with no money and no prospects. Not Captain John Watson, damned good army doctor with a good career and two legs that both bloody well worked. He's not allowed to be that man.
"This is bollocks," he types. Difficult, his hand is shaking again.
He deletes it. Sits for a few minutes, waiting for the words to come. Tries again.
"22 January 2010. Woke up. Ate apple. Drank tea. Went for a walk. Came back. Took paracetamol. Threw fucking cane across room. Mocked by blank page."
He considers, then strikes the sixth and seventh sentences, and changes the last to "Wrote in blog."