The alarm buzzed like a mosquito in my ear—annoying, persistent, impossible to ignore.
I stared at the ceiling for a full minute, half expecting it to blink back at me.
Was I alive? Dead? Or just stuck in the limbo between sleep and survival?
Either way, I peeled myself out of the warm cocoon of blankets,
Like a reluctant caterpillar with zero interest in becoming a butterfly.
I shuffled to the window, cracked it open, and peeked outside.
Nothing. Just the same dead silence and darkness.
Why the hell did I even look?
A moment of silence followed.
Not out of reverence—just the usual reminder that I'm alone.
My brain finally finished booting up.
And like a cruel notification, it reminded me:
Time to prepare for hell.
Jail.
School.
I turned on the kettle, the old soldier that's been fighting the water wars with me for years.
No geyser. No tap. Just six years of dry pipes and desperate prayers for rain.
Rainwater is our lifeline.
Bathing in boiled water feels like prepping for a ritual, not a routine.
After the bath, I slapped on some lotion—cheap stuff, but it does the job.
Slid into my school uniform, the fabric stiff like it resents being worn.
Then it hit me.
I hadn't eaten in almost two days.
My stomach growled like a caged beast,
Reminding me I'm not invincible.
I scavenged the kitchen like a raccoon in a hoodie.
Two slices of bread. One beef patty.
Not gourmet, but enough to keep me upright.
I used to be Mr. Flavour—the guy who made school lunches look like five-star meals.
Now I'm just surviving.
Less food means fewer risks, sure.
But it also means less joy, less energy, less me.
Dad was already up—early bird, always.
He's my Uber to school, no surge pricing, just silence and sighs.
My sister joined me, both of us dressed like inmates on our way to serve time.
It was still dark outside,
But the school lights stood tall, glowing like guardians.
Real MVPs.
I was the first in class.
Again.
The silence of the empty room wrapped around me like a memory I didn't ask for.
I sat there, hoping I wouldn't be stuck in this grade another year.
Repeating would be like pressing pause on my life.
And I'm already tired of waiting.
Then the NPCs started spawning—classmates with default settings and recycled dialogue.
My anxiety flared up like a glitch in the system.
They ignored me, thankfully.
But my heart was still racing,
Faster than pistons in a Formula 1 engine.