it was two days since the incident. the one, which had shattered all his hopes in a single night.


Two days he had spent at home. Staring at walls. Lying in his bed. Hiding his face as the tears came, one after another.


He walked out of the house. Once, a Sunday was a day he had looked forward to. That he spent the entire week waiting for.


This Sunday, however, was one to be spent alone.


The rain came. He let it come. Clad in just his usual clothes and carrying that sling bag he'd brought around for ages. No umbrella. No raincoat.


The slight drizzle quickly escalated into a roaring downpour; he watched, all around him, as people ran for cover. Still he walked on. His shirt was soaked, his pants heavy with the weight of the water in them, and there he felt a bitter cold, internal and external, penetrating from the physical being of his body to the deepest reaches of his soul. The climate was one to be avoided at all costs normally; today, it served only as a mirror in which a reflection of himself could be seen: a reflection of the situation within.


He saw the building, saw all the good times he had seen in there. And yet, he knew today he would see no more.


He was no longer welcome.


He walked on, leaving the building behind. It quickly faded into the distance; the events that had transpired, however, did not, lingering with him like the pain of the scar of a deep wound.


He reached the bus stop. Here, if for nothing else, he stopped. His bag was soaked thoroughly; any further moisture and his worksheets would be ruined.


Fancy thinking about worksheets at a time like this.


In-built traits of a flawed system.


The passengers on the bus stared at the soaking wet apparition that boarded the vehicle. Surely, here must be a madman.


Insane he had been. But no longer. He didn't care what they thought. What did it matter?


What did anything matter, then?