The Voice He Hears (Part 4)

He was not the man, or in his mind, the boy he once had been. He was no longer the company everyone loved to be around–the happy-go-lucky, sarcastic prick that had a heart for the outcast. The one people would talk to about their problems, knowing firsthand that he would give them straight feedback. Genuine, honest words. He had no idea where he now stood.

This didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t what his discarded dross was supposed to reveal.

To exist in some sort of dormancy, an inexplicable melancholy, was not where he desired to be. Yet, it was present. The days were all the same–invaluable. The worries were becoming those which only pertained to himself. Self-pity had taken the wheel. It drove him into the places that seclusion and reclusive tendencies provide. He was slowly becoming the mad man of the films, and it didn’t take long for him to slip deeper into the darkness. Bitterness was sweeter than the taste of the Rum and Coke he gladly nourished himself with, and it was becoming his master.

 

 

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