Each New Day is Old

8-bit music begins to play, and somewhere in the dark room something began to stir.

Oliver's hand reached out, missing the blaring device a few times before finally ending the victorious tone. With a groan, he stood, as tired as always as began to prepare for the day.

The same bushy hair greeted him in the bathroom mirror, as well as the same prescription bottles waiting behind it when he went for his toothbrush. His lips curled with distaste for a moment, but he kept going on with his routine. He felt confident he wouldn't need to take them either.

After the somewhat half-hearted grooming came getting dressed. His newest job wasn't exactly high-paying nor was it by any means permanent (temp jobs his only salvation it felt like), and the customers he dealt with would probably spit on him as much as give their money, but like the rest, it was at least a job he actually had.

Breakfast was waiting in a cheap box for him, the outside covered in colorful mascots boasting about the 'nutrients' that could be found in their product. He quickly took out a portion, noting how he'd need to make a grocery trip sometime soon. 

Work was...well, what it always was. He could barely meet the gaze of customers, from both fatigue and the desire to try and not anger them any further than they already are for being served by 'tainted blood'. At times the sounds and sights would fade and return, until finally; everything began to bleed away, a weight falling upon him, and he was out.

It was his fourth time fainting at this job, and apparently one time too many.

The manager gave the familiar speech, pretending to be sympathetic and caring, even as his expression grew stiff whenever Oliver's tail moved into view.

He didn't have anything to take home besides himself. He had stopped bringing any decorations or the like for lockers and desks long ago.

He walked down the same street he had walked for years, humming to the music coming through his old headset, his tail waving with the rhythm.

At home, he opened the fridge and took out one of the beers that inhabited half of the space within.

He sat in his chair with a long sigh leaving him, accompanied with the cracking sound of the can opening.

His foot moved with the beat of the still playing music as he took a sip, the cheap drink sending a familiar warm buzz through him.

And, as he picked up the Gameboy beside him, the usual smile crossed his lips.

Another day, another show to himself and to everyone else that he would and could keep going.

The same proof that he could fight on until better days came.