Friday night : The night I died - Part 1

So like I told in the previous post, I was having a writer's block. So I'm going to show you the start of my book, part by part and hoping that you like it.

Friday night. The last client steps out the door. A cold wind finds its way through my hallway, swirling up the staircase like fallen leaves dancing along a path. As I close the door, my habitual side kicks in immediately, searching for my favorite mohair cardigan. I wrap myself in its familiar warmth, the same soft fabric that has brought me comfort and peace so many times before. Taking a deep breath, I pull it closer around my body, as if it could shield me from what’s to come.

Friday night. It would be my last Friday night.

I step into the kitchen, switch on the kettle, and begin a ritual that has become second nature to me. I make myself a steaming cup of mint tea, hoping it will chase the chill from my bones. After a long, exhausting week, this has become my tradition. But tonight, something is different.

The day had started with an odd feeling, a lingering sense of unease that I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t the first time I had decided to complete this task. Less than six months ago, it was asked of me, and I agreed without hesitation. Yet, my body reacts differently this time. It’s as if all my warmth, my energy, is being pulled downward, sucked into the floorboards by an invisible force. A dark presence lurking beneath the kitchen sink, feeding on my remaining heat.

An unbearable cold creeps up from my feet, winding its way through my body. I feel like I will never be warm again, like this cold is permanent. And I hate this kind of cold.

My hands go through the motions of making tea without my mind even being present. I pluck fresh mint from the small herb garden on the counter, arrange the leaves in my cup, and pour the boiling water over them. The cup rests in its usual place before I sit down.

I instinctively lift my legs off the floor, curling them beneath me as if the ground itself is a gaping mouth, ready to swallow me whole. I wrap the mohair cardigan tightly around my knees, cocooning myself in its softness. The warm cup of tea is cradled between both hands, offering the only warmth I can feel. Without thinking, I blow small circles into the tea’s surface. I don’t know why I do it—it’s just part of the ritual.

Every Friday, I sit here, reflecting on my week, feeling the satisfaction of the work I do. This is the moment when I let go, when peace begins, when I can finally breathe. My time for myself. My time for my family.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the cold remains. That eerie feeling clings to me, refusing to be soothed by my routine. It doesn’t bring me the usual comfort. Instead, it feels like the start of something dark, something inevitable.