My limp, motionless body is laid on the chair. No man would call such a miserable position ‘settled’ or a ‘sitting one’:

  What is it to sit, truly? Your buttocks held in the chair? Spine erect, arrow-like? It being pushed against the back of the chair?

  Then, I've never truly sat in my life:

  I use stools.

  My limpness holds no tension in muscles to cease itself, either.

  But I use stools.

  I am absolutely relaxed, letting gravity part the flow.

  … But I am on a stool.

  How does one, then, lay?

  But what is to lay?...

  My spine perfectly points at the flat part, hardly pressing, spread legs touching the hollow space underneath my table as the part used to usually properly deliver a goal in Football — I am no biologist, so I kind of must use those finicky descriptions from sports comics— pressed against two of the four supportive steel rods.

  Arms? I must not speak of arms: they are absent, yet present. They hold no meaning, and they are everywhere and nowhere at all.

  The upper pair of limbs is redundant; I am no alien to not use the word ‘pair’.

  I am no alien, to not communicate…

  So, I threatened my mama to end it all if she doesn't pay for my Wi-Fi.

  It did not work.

  A-ha! I know, I have an older sister!

  She left me on “read”.

  Father.

  I did not try.

  Grandma.

  Grandpa.

  All of them left me “on read.”

  “Hah…”

  It was a realization that my grandpa and grandma, frankly, do not possess phones, and I've bothered a random elderly lady and elderly gentleman from my contact list whom I named suspiciously similarly. I think those are my neighbours.

  They disdained me for my noise.

  I had no regrets; it did not matter, in the end.

  And I, in hope that my Wi-Fi will be repaid, I’ve now settled finally, I've — sat.

  An irrational sense of confidence that my Wi-Fi will be repaid has risen, and I!...

  …

  A month passed.

  I lost all hope. I haven't exchanged a singular word with my family: when I begged, I was brazenly ignored.

  I practiced speaking with myself a little bit more often than I've already done, and the pile of dirty clothes is now stagnant in its growth.

  I believe, for it to necessarily rise,I must have played games — and Wi-Fi was not the only fruit I've lost.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Lights.

  Heat.

  Food.

  All of those were not paid for.

  My fridge was empty, and the food inside had become rotten as there was nothing of the fuel required by the fridge.

  The foul odor remained, and I was unsure of how to go through this German contraption — for now, I've decided to starve.

  And, most importantly.

  I can't even look at my online wallet…

  My phone, too, has perished.

  The despair has no calms: the visual novels have deceived me, betrayed me! The anger rose and never stilled. The predatory tool of storytelling has not given me one adequate lesson — what calm is here!?

  Gh!

  My stomach pains and growls: it felt as no suffering from hunger, but a true wound. A heated rod breaking skin, flesh and muscles to penetrate me!.. A turn of the rod, one, two, three; delayed growl, four!

  I collapse to the floor, my knees tightly set against a randomly found shirt. My expression is truly absurd, of a baroque art, but I care not: be damned those who've given birth to this agony!

  The world is sinful, for me to feel hunger of such levels!

  Or, I am exaggerating, and currently under the effect of “placebo”, worsening it.

  “...Eh.”

  I've eaten my fill a week ago — right before the capitalistic blackout, so it can't feel that bad. I mean, I am hungry, but it can't be that bad.

  “...E-eeeeh.”

  I let the sound of not my tongue, but throat all out as I kept my position on my knees. I would not return to my feet, but I need to use the bathroom, as in the direness of replenishment I've started drinking water a little bit more often.

  And If I were to fall into a state of depression right here, my living room would simply become another kitchen…

  But I myself have thought of this being filling, have I not?.. That it cannot be “depressing”, as there is no sadness in joy?

  But “this” and “that” were with lights! Internet! Food! Games! Everything! Now I have naught, but my very own “self.”

  My self…

  In the end, my mama and papa stopped arguing with me: they've resorted to a strategy as vile as indifference, to which my sister has resorted to first, and I can barely blame (her).

  But.

  Have I not…

  “Ah.”

  Thus, I have reached a lack of any human communication.

  During this week, I've found out how truly futile the lighting of this apartment is: I barely have windows, and all I have after the loss of comrade “Monnie” and comrade “John Bull”, which is a name for a lightbulb after its death, is a package of matches — red tip and wooden body.

  Only five. The last matches of this apartment.

  I'll be fast enough.

  Within a span of two matches, I carefully sneak through my very own living room. Although it doesn't resemble my closet as much as my personal room does, I am careful: if I stumble on a sock here, there would be nothing to secure me!

  The task for the other two matches is to let me finish the important task.

  “Heh.”

  Task?

  Push the colour-torn, “pearly” bathroom door, and finish the job in a minute.

  Easy.

  The last two matches were popped into the sink, which too has been harmed by lack of any paint for the last three years; and, as the dimming light is shed into the wetness, in the lightly cracked mirror: I view myself.

  A single, precise moment.

  Half-lidded eyes flutter, and I light yet another match…

  A man — a boy, rather— of dry, pale skin; a ghoul or a ghost devoid of vitamins, one daresay, though the difference is barely more than esthetic — to choose between the pearl of two undeads afraid of heaven is redundant.

  A slim stature of a moderate to average height — although average to female kind — thinned torso and even thinner waist. A pair of spear-like, bruised by the darkened apartment limbs. In the end, he acquired a pathetic description. Though, if we are to speak more of the beautiful, and not the disdained, could we speak of the contrast?

  Some of the works to colour this face certainly are feminine: a round, not prolonged enough to be an oval, expression. A tiny, perked downwards nose and tired brown eyes the size to not be great nor tiny, with the barest of lights in them. Lately, the boy overslept due to his lack of any task to perform, so is it truly preposterous to speak of the dim darkness surrounding his eyes? O, the lips: they are, truly, as repugnant — a narrow line, bearing wounds.

  It is, indeed, foolish to not first mention what could make one ‘feminine’ to begin with — hair.

  The chestnut colored, straightly prolonged locks, parted through the middle and rarely washed; clean yet unwettened forehead exposed, as behind the lack of a brush is palpable. Thus, too are devoid of liquid.

  The length is far more than moderate — it dips beneath the shoulders, with tips of hairs exposed.

  But again, contrast? Above and beneath the lip is a stubble — not enough to be a beard, merely an imitation. It was unshaved, yet it wouldn't dare to grow any further.

  Two stereotypically feminine or masculine sides co-exist on either plane: to view him from the back, is to see a folk of a beautiful maiden; to view from front, is to see an immature man.

  Thus, are the Beautiful and the Ugly of Nista. A boy, or a man, of an age twenty one.

  The last light concludes.

  …

  I sigh. Breast full and void: now, I've reached the point of complete darkness, unless I am to sit right beneath a window.

  My stomach too is void, frankly. It again growls and turns.

  “...Maybe, it's just better to sleep.”

  Here.

  Good enough.

  I collapse against the bathtub, my eyelids close, and…

  I rise to my feet. There are many fears.

  A count of which I can't comprehend: I cannot dare to put myself to a stop, and to ponder over them.

  With them, there is suffering and unpitiful sorrow.

  Must I chase the greater pain?

  I am uneducated, yet it does not completely sever my mind.

  Mind blank, I clutch onto the breast of my cloth.

  Mind blank, I chase the lesser sorrow.

  And hitting my pinkie, I cry and leave my apartment.

  The coherent surge of thoughts ceased at the same rate as it had begun.