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Courtesy of Twitter


He is waif, his appetite stifled by the smoldering cigarette in between his fingers. Albeit young, his face is slacked; haggard from incessantly staring tribulation in the eye, slowly caving in.

The world has been picking on him. Decking him any time he attempted to get back up. The douche – couldn’t pick on someone his own size. Someone his own girth. Someone who had a little bit more to live for. Someone who could fight back instead of being spongy; soaking it all in. His weary eyes gazed at the cup, musing over the lethality therein.

He chugs the gravy concoction in gulps so the taste doesn’t linger in his palates longer than wonted. He curls on the sofa. Trying to meet his destination halfway in a fetal position; just like he came he wants to go. His index finger shudders, as if with an anatomy of its own, barely clinging on.

The sun is going under, ceding to its foe. His empty pill bottle lies beside an ashtray, a regimen disregarded. His sheers wave, breeze shooting in through the window; a context juxtaposed – in the same room that a life goes another enters.

His phone pings, message on screen:
I found here! She’s-Alive-Maria-your-daughter-is-alive-coming-over-right-away!

A death row pardon, two minutes too late.


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