THE SKY is gloomy as he sets his golden orbs on it. He could see the dark ominous clouds of the sky that were threatening to shed tears and the harsh gust of wind accompanied it; slapping his skin and his white polo shirt, seemingly angry and the cause of the vast sky's melancholy. The cloud is like him and the wind must be someone who'll wake him up from his reveries; to open his eyes to the reality that he's indeed a pitiful person. 

The sky must be sympathizing with him, and if the sky will cry, maybe it's better to weep as well. Maybe they're on the same page. 

He looked at his reflection at a boutique's glass. His swollen eyes with big eye bags, cracked and dry lips—overall a hideous haggard appearance. He sacrificed sleep to finish his new manuscript and even skipped to bathe and eat. He exercised everything his brain could offer but in the end, he was rejected. 

He sighed. 

Rejection seemed to be his death, his agent, his murderer and he already died numerous times. 

He recalled what had happened a while ago...

”This is trash! How many times do I have to tell you to give up writing fiction if you're as bad as rotten food! ” His agent slammed the flash drive containing his work on the big glass table; eyes flaring and face painted with pure disgust. 

He could only lower his head as he tried to stop himself from trembling. His heart hurt, he could feel his brain throbbing and his eyes warm—tears would soon flow. 

This scenario is somewhat deja vu—no, it's been his nth time coming back here. Showing his new plot, his new hard work but the only ending of his tragic story is being in pain—the pain of being branded as not good, as useless. 

”If you continue to be this incompetent, stop writing and start working in a garbage chute! ”

The words lashed his soul. He felt a weight on his chest and a lump in his throat. As a second passed, the weight got heavier until he could no longer hold it in. A lone tear escaped from his eye. Another one dripped. One more followed. Tears kept pouring and pouring 'til it became a storm.

He kicked a pebble along his way as he could feel his eyes stung. 

”I-I wanted to become a writer, why is it so hard?” he whispered to himself as he started walking again. 

”Maybe, Mr. So is right? I am useless. ” He gripped his hair hard, not minding the stares and whispers of the people watching him. 

The rain started to fall and as it fell he cried a rain of tears. Hoping that his frustrations and sadness will finally be washed away. 

-

He yawned. His eyes felt heavy, reminding him not to cry so much when you lack sleep, it's making everything worse than what your heart feels. 

He probably would look like a jackass being punched by street thugs and he doesn't need a mirror to prove his theory wrong. 

Well, Mr. Pat So indeed looked like a street thug or even a mafia boss and he is always the poor victim. 

”Ughh! Stop being so dramatic. ” He berated himself as he played-spin with the pen in his hand. 

It's a very tough battle to stay awake when your eyes scream sleep. After he went home, he took a bath and ate cup noodles. He knew that he needed to eat or else it would be the end for him but he's not eating healthy either. His life is like a literary piece and it's all irony. 

”Circumstantial identification is established when an individual fits the biological profile of a set of skeletal or largely skeletal remains. . .” he coherently mumbled as he yawned again. 

”Don't sleep, you still can't, ” he reminded himself as he tried to focus his attention on his numerous reviewers that are currently sprawled on his bed. 

He is so useless that he forgot when he's doing his unappreciated manuscript. He neglected his midterm exams and now it's starting to face him like a girlfriend finding out he cheated. 

And he doesn't even have a girlfriend. If people loved to bully him, so is his love life. 

”Focus Anthony, girls are only distractions like her. ” He started to doodle a drawing of a girl with two horns on her head, holding a pitchfork like she's from hell. 

”You're like Mr.So very, very demonic. Hell would love to welcome you, ” he softly murmured and pointed his pen to the face of his drawing, pouting. 

”Ughhh! Anthony! Get a grip on yourself! F-o-c-u-s! ” He slapped his face and he stood up on his bed and started to jump like a crazy school kid. 

Maybe his nerves would cooperate now. 

It's been two hours since he started to study but none of the words on the reviewer imprinted on his mind. How unlucky could he be? 

Plus he is always getting distracted. And he hated it! 

If he couldn't be a writer, at least he hoped he could finish school and be a forensics scientist in the future. And then, Mr. So will be one of the victims of a case he'll solve. 

He grinned at the thought of Mr. So's dead body and started to imagine. He would bathe in his blood, his big belly would be covered in stab wounds, a total of forty stabs, eyes dilated.

He would look like pig meat. 

He wouldn't be surprised if indeed his agent will be found dead someday, with that man's ugly attitude. Those people he had insulted would surely want him gone. 

What if he'll write a fiction wherein Mr. So will be killed? Writers tend to kill their enemies in their works, right? 

”But if he'll find out he's the subject; I'll be the one dead. " He rubbed his eyes using his hand. Facial restoration and. . .” He tried reading again but in the end, he sighed. 

”How bad could reality get?” he sighed and slumped his face on his notes, silently praying that his nose would inhale all the words he needed to study and deliver it to his brain. 

He chose to write to express himself and escape his reality. But he didn't expect that his safe haven would bring him much more pain and worsen the torments he's already facing. 

”But giving up isn't in the option, ” he softly babbled to himself as a memory of why he keeps on moving triggered his mind as he willed himself to continue reading. 

”What's with that guy? He's weird. It's like it's his first time going out and he looks like a lunatic. ” He heard one of his classmates say. Not minding even if he's hearing everything they're saying. They laughed like he was a hired clown. 

His once happy smile turned into a sad frown. He just wanted friends, why would he try to find one's wrong? Why does everything he does always seem wrong to other people? When will he be correct? 

He felt his eyes begin to water and he tried to suppress his whimpers. 

”Did you hear that—” one of them started pointing in his direction. ”That guy he's a son of a dirty lady, that babe with sexy as hell stockings and plum ya know but nah she's old now.” He heard them insult his mother like it's not respectful to do so; they laughed like everything they say is for the sake of amusement. 

He wanted to fight for his mother, he wanted to tell them they're wrong—that his mother is amazing, and she's doing numerous jobs to feed him and his sister. But he's a coward, he had no guts—all he could do was cry in his cold dark spot—all alone. 

He covered his ears as he heard them laugh, his eyes shut as their joyous facial expressions focus on how pitiful his life is. 

”And his father! A soldier who's gone and never found for 17 years. I bet he just ditched his wife and found someone fresh and who wants a pathetic son like him? ” The classroom got noisy every passing second like a party and he served the game. 

He cried and cried up until he shouted in frustration. 

No one stopped and it continued even if he begged them to stop. 

”No! No! No! Don't do this, don't do this, stop. Anthony. Sister's here, please. ” He could hear his sister's plea as she cried but all he could think about was the cold comfort of the sharp object in his grip and how it would help him be free. 

”P-Please no, Don't leave, sister. Anthony. Don't! ” A shriek came from his sister's mouth as a red rusty-smelling liquid flowed from his wrist. 

”No!!”

He stared at the dark spot of his room as he touched the diagonal scar that rests on his wrist. He looked at his mother and his sister's smiling picture in a blue frame lying near his old cabinet and smiled. 

”I swear, I'll reach my dreams. I promise, Mom and Aimee. ” Picking up his notes, he pinched his face and chanted a mantra saying, ’I can do this! ’ and started to study again. 

Unbeknownst to him, a creature with bright eyes has been watching him all this time; eyes observing him as it watched him through the glass window of his room. 

It soon stretched its paw and meowed.