[Humans are ugly. That is the only conclusion I can see.]
Aren Indube walked down the hall, sticking to the right side like he always did, feeling every bump and imperfection in the bricks that were coated with pure white paint, dirtied by the hands of many.
[They steal, fight, injure, libel, ignore, isolate, murder, and above all, humans are pathetic.]
A person stopped in front of him. He was 6’4”, with black and spiky hair that shone with hair gel. When he grinned, every tooth in his mouth was perfectly white and straight, except for one canine that hung slightly crooked. He looked down at the relatively short Aren.
[Humans cannot survive alone. They have no natural enemies biologically, so they made one out of themselves. Mediocrity is promoted; ambition is crushed.]
Aren gave no facial expression. He looked up at the person in front of him, uninterested. His name didn’t matter – he wouldn’t have to read it again after that night, after all.
[The wounds that most need healing are left to fester in the broken hearts of the victims of such a horrible world. Happiness is nothing more than an illusion in a shattered world like this.]
Completely unprovoked, a mass of bone, blood, and skin came flying at Aren’s face, the knuckles hitting him directly in the nose. Blood immediately started dripping from his nostrils, and he turned away, bending over and holding his face.
“Che.” The guy remarked as he walked away, a satisfied grin on his face.
[Such a world is not a world worth living in.]
His detached, unhappy eyes scanned the hallway, plenty of people finally beginning to return to their original bustling state.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
[The lethargic spectators are even worse.]
He swallowed his saliva, hoping to quell the horribly bitter taste in his mouth. It didn’t work, of course.
[What a joke.]
He made it to class, nobody looking at him. Of course nobody would want to see an unsightly, bloodied face.
Class ended uneventfully. After a long, agonizing wait for his bus, the telltale yellow coat of paint could be seen drifting down the road. He stepped aboard, attempting to escape the deafening roar of the engine as fast as he could. He found his regular seat, in the back corner of the bus. Nobody else was interested in the back, so he sat there.
He stared out of the window, scanning the landscape. He attempted to block out the din of incessant pointless chatter – unsuccessfully, of course.
After what seemed like eons, he managed to escape the insufferable bus, a wind blowing by as the vehicle left. He stood in place for a moment, a frigid wind blowing through his hair, sticking a brown, half-crushed leaf right above his forehead. Not bothering to remove it, he sighed, and trudged home, the wind blowing up a tornado of leaves, staying behind him as though it were following. As he stepped onto his unkempt front lawn, it dispersed, and he made his way to the façade of old wood and chipped paint.
Not bothering to greet his parents, he instead chose to return once more to the mess of his room, glad to see the rope he had hidden wasn’t gone. He sat upon his hard, uncomfortable, shredded mattress, looping the rope. He tied it to a fixture on his ceiling, and pulled over a stool.