Rachel lay peacefully beside me, her hair a gentle cascade across the pillow. I hesitated, considering whether to disturb her slumber. Instead, I opted for a soft kiss on her forehead, a gesture of unspoken love. My feet, size 10, found the cool carpeted floor, and I made my way to the bathroom. In the mirror, a tired reflection stared back, prompting a whispered plea, "Lord, not today."

The door creaked ominously as I slipped out, the sound reverberating down the hallway. I glanced back at Rachel, her form still cocooned in sleep. Each step echoed with uncertainty as I navigated the graffiti-laden passage to greet the brisk morning air. "Lord, not today," I murmured, stepping into the world beyond.

I awoke amidst the debris of yesterday's excesses, sprawled on a friend's couch. My saddle bag was a comforting weight by my side. The mirror offered no solace, only the reflection of a weary soul. "Lord, not today," I implored, splashing water over my face and untamed afro. Stepping over sleeping bodies, I exited into a hallway filled with lingering scents and memories.

Mom was already awake, her presence a constant bustle of activity. The bathroom mirror reflected a visage that seemed increasingly unfamiliar. "Lord, not today," I said, washing my face and confronting the man I had become. An argument with Mom left tension in the air as I left, the creaky door a familiar companion on my journey to the outside world.

I awoke in the warmth of family, my cousin's hospitality a brief respite. The ritual of water on my face and through my hair was a prayer in itself. "Lord, not today." A goodbye kiss to Cousin promised safety and hope. The Number 5 bus awaited, a symbol of routine and escape. As I boarded, I whispered a silent prayer, "Lord, not today."

Back with Rachel, I vowed to change, to find stability amidst chaos. Her gentle breathing filled the room as I rose, the bathroom mirror a constant reminder of neglect. "Lord, not today," I repeated, shaving away the shadows of the past days. A simple breakfast awaited, Rachel's silent support echoing in every bite. The world outside beckoned, the door's creak marking my departure as I stepped into familiar streets.

A stranger's touch roused me, a paramedic's concerned eyes meeting mine. My body lay lifeless, the cold air a final embrace. No clear cause of death, only mysteries left behind. As they placed me in the vehicle, my saddle bag became my testament. Mom arrived later, her heartbreak palpable. The bag, my only identifier, held unexpected content—a USB stick, a song of my life, "Lord Not Today." In its melody, my story lingered, a legacy of fleeting moments.