A boy stood by the side of the road, putting his hands in his pocket, wearing a rain-soaked hoodie.
"I wish my life would become a lot more interesting and fun than it already is" he said, looking down at the puddle in front of him, then he noticed a dead star or as people like to call it, a shooting star.
The neon lights blurred past as he stared at them, he smiled, just a bit then he pulled out his phone from his pocket, cracked by the side, one bar of battery left with a weak signal, and the time read 3:41 a.m.
He sighed, "Huff!" Then looked back up.
"School is in four hours, I should probably go back home," he muttered.
He lived alone in a bungalow, being the only good thing that his parents did for him before kicking him out of the house when he turned 13. Well, they were irresponsible parents who didn't want a child but ended up having one.
He worked as hard as he could for his upkeep. Feeding wasn't easy, so he ate twice a day by grace, and on a normal day, he ate only once—that being snacks.
He looked back up to the sky. The dark clouds, though not morning, gleamed when lightning struck, which was a beautiful scene to behold.
He smiled, then tucked his hands back into his pocket. His hoodie was already soaked by the rain. The breeze blew heavily, which made him shiver out of cold, but it wasn't the first time.
His mind reeled back to when he looked up to his parents, always wanting to be like them. But now? He didn't even want to resemble them physically.
They were both rich, so he didn't get why they couldn't have just put up with him or sent him abroad. Did they really have to kick him out though? There were literally so many options!
He vowed weeks later that he would make it to the top and make them regret saying those words to him on the night they let him out the door.
"Sorry, Ellie, but we don't want anything to do with you. So we bought a house for you to live in. We do hope you live a good life and don't indulge in too much s*x, so you don't end up like us."
His mother's very words, as his father stared at him like he wasn't his son.
"Tsk!" He gritted his teeth, then spat on the wet tarred road.
"I wish I could change my blood and genes," he muttered.
Eventually, he reached the front door of his little home. His neighbour was still awake with his usual threesome, never letting him sleep peacefully. That was the main reason he went out for a walk in the first place.
"Can't make less moaning sounds, Jake?" he muttered to himself as more moaning sounds were heard through his wall.
"The perfect neighbourhood, my ass," he said before he walked into the house.
Most of his neighbours on this street were youngsters, so at times they came back home with whoever they liked that evening and, well, got right down to business.
One of his neighbours tried to pull him once into it. It wasn't like he didn't want to, but there's a difference between I own you and you're not the first guy.
"Huff!" He heaved as he dropped his keys on the centre table, turning on the light switch behind the couch.
Turning around, he saw the mess he hadn't cleaned up in weeks—his uniform half dried, laying on the sofa, his torn boxers on the ceiling fan, a finished bottle of whiskey beneath the door rug.
"I'll clean it in the morning," he sighed, walking toward his room.
He opened the door, and the scent of the toilet pissed on his face.
"F*ck!" he cursed. "When last did I wash that toilet?"
He closed his nose until he shut the toilet door, then turned on the AC, which only seemed to circulate the air even further.
He looked at his bed—his clothes, textbook, gaming items—all littered on it. He simply pushed all of them to the floor and jumped on the bed.
"I'll do that tomorrow," the sound of procrastination.
Then he closed his eyes, reminiscing his dreams and goals as well as the reason for them.
"I'll make you regret it, Mom and Dad," he vowed before sleep captured him, making him close his eyelids.
Out of luck, he opened his eyes and turned to his phone, which was dead. He slid off the bed quickly and to the parlour to check his wall clock for the time—it read 8:49 a.m.
"Oh my God, I overslept!" he muttered, remembering there was punishment for coming late to school, which was by 9 a.m.
He quickly ran into his room, pulled off his clothes and flung them anywhere.
"I'll take care of it later."
He ran into the guest bathroom and quickly took his bath, right after he plugged his phone to charge.
He ran into his room.
"Where is my uniform?!" he screamed, running up and down the room. Then he remembered from last night that it was on the couch. He quickly ran to the parlour again.
"Damn me. Arrange your things for once, man!"
He put it on right there, drops of water still dripping down his body. He didn't see it "fast" enough to wipe his body with a towel.
"It'll dry anyways," he muttered.
He rushed to the kitchenette and glanced around. The only eatable morning food was an egg, which he took without hesitation.
He unplugged his phone from the room and rushed to the parlour again, wearing his socks as fast as he could, then took the egg, peeled it, and started moving toward the door.
He threw the egg into his mouth and swallowed it by mistake.
At first, his breath stopped, which made him sit on the couch, trying to grasp air.
He tried coughing, but it only seemed to make it worse. He couldn't speak, scream, or call for help because it was in his throat.
His eyes started releasing tears because of the lack of oxygen. His throat felt like it was going to burst open.
He tried squeezing it out, but as usual, it only made it worse. With the last energy, he tried running toward the kitchenette to drink water, but it was too late.
He fell to the ground, grasping for air as hard as he could. He crawled toward the kitchenette, unlocking his phone and calling 911, but it was too late.
"Hello?" the police asked through the phone, continuously.
"End the call, man. Must be another prank caller," a man close to him spoke through the phone after several attempts.
"Hello?" he said one more time before he ended the call.
Ellie laid there, his mind already leaving his body as the words of the policeman resounded like a cymbal.
Then everything went black.