It was a cold, rainy evening. The alarm in the room sounded louder than any other. Fred, who had been sleeping peacefully as if he were a child, was very tired from his white-collar job; he had to sit in his office and work for hours on the computer. Fred didn’t want to leave his bed; he didn’t want to start his day and repeat his everyday cycle. But some force made him get up. He quickly dressed, left his old apartment—it wasn’t a particularly nice apartment, just a small, poor one he could afford—and rushed to the office, where he met his boss.
Boss (Ted): Late as usual, Mr. Fred. How many times do I have to tell you to come in fucking early?
Fred: Sorry, boss… I’m sorry.
Ted: Stop with your bullshit, Fred. Now go and do these tasks and assignments.
Fred: *quickly goes to his seat*
The office routine went on until he went home.
Fred just went and lay on the bed. He was exhausted, completely tired. He wanted to rest and sleep, but he couldn’t; he didn’t want to skip the hours only to wake up in the morning and return to his routine again. He was fed up. He just stayed up all night being himself—playing games, watching movies. As he slowly fell asleep… *ring ring ring*—the same loud noise, the same fucking noise that devoured him, gave him nightmares, a sense of sadness that he had to go to the office.
He couldn’t breathe, yet he had no problem doing so. He felt as if a thousand elephants had stomped on his head. He felt dead, but he wasn’t. He woke up, dressed again for the office. As he walked along the road, he saw a dog standing there with a bruise on its foot, walking with a limp. He ran fast to the dog, hugged it, and broke down into tears.
Fred: It’s okay, boy.
Some cats passed by and hissed at the dog; the cars driving by honked at Fred for blocking the road. The dog, hearing the sounds, reacted quickly as if it had been programmed to treat noise as orders and ran off with a limp. Fred was just blank. He didn’t know what to do. What was the purpose of life? Why couldn’t he live a happy life like everyone else? Why was this happening to him? He wanted to escape from this world. Maybe die? Maybe run away to some far-off place? Heaven? No heaven? At least hell?
Fred returned to his apartment. He didn’t want to work; he knew he would get scolded for it, and maybe the boss would lower his salary. He just lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Fred: Maybe I’m the unluckiest person.
Fred cried in his bed. Wanting to kill himself or hurt himself, he just wanted to be at peace. As the torment of life went on, he finally slept…
He woke up. This time there was no alarm sound; it was silent. The ceiling looked different; the place looked different. Fred panicked. He looked around the room, found a mirror, and saw his face—and it wasn’t the real him.
