Inside a dark and rundown apartment room, a boy in his early twenties lay knocked out on his sofa, hugging an empty bottle of alcohol.
The ceiling fan creaked slowly, its shadow creeping around the dimly lit room. Sunlight seeped through a crack in the slightly open blinds, the warm, bright sensation hitting his face and stirring him awake.
He sat up, attempting to shift away from the sunlight, when he accidentally kicked five more empty bottles at the foot of the sofa.
But he seemed keen on sleeping, ignoring it all entirely.
Seconds bled into minutes, and minutes into hours, as the boy slept without a care in the world.
Tringgg!
An alarm clock shattered the silence, jolting him awake. He reached for it, but lost his balance, and fell, his head throbbing with a sudden, nasty headache.
He stumbled, bringing down a small wooden table where stacks of papers rested. He cursed, righting the table, but it crashed again, its leg broken and pathetic, just like him.
The boy let out small sobs, clutching the papers with flower decorations framing them. Written on them were his mother's—stories of fun memories she had with her son, and regrets about the time she would no longer spend with him.
The sobs turned into full anguish, the papers becoming wet with tears.
He pulled himself together, gathering all the letters and carefully placing them in a box sitting inside an old cabinet.
He switched on the lights, which flickered before stabilizing, as he made his way to the kitchen sink and splashed water on his face. The cold water was oddly comforting.
Returning to the living room, he gathered the empty bottles, placing them in a carton box alongside the shattered clock, careful not to prick himself on the sharp edges.
Taking out the broom, he swept the area where pieces of glass might have fallen, ensuring it was safe to walk. After sweeping, he sighed, looking around his place and realizing there was a lot of cleaning to do.
Dirty clothes lay scattered, and school things, such as notebooks and pens, loitered throughout the room. He spent the next three hours tidying up his place, making it look more livable, even if just a tiny bit.
While cleaning, he couldn't stop but remember his late mother. She had unfortunately died at the age of 38 after a long battle with cancer. It had only been two days since her passing, but he missed her dearly.
His father had left both of them when he was little, but neither of them really minded, since he was a deadbeat drunkard who beat his wife and children after gambling away his work pay.
The two lived comfortably, his mother able to afford anything he wanted while working as a teacher.
But it seemed life had other plans. It was as if the world did not want to see him happy. His mother, his only family, was taken from him on the very day of his birthday. He was hurting and angry, understandably so. He felt wronged, questioning God why He takes good people and not the pieces of shits to be cleansed.
Tired, he retreated to his bedroom, turning off all the lights before closing the door behind him. Once again, he fell asleep.