There once lived a wretched little boy. The boy had no name, for no one was interested in his existence, let alone that small and insignificant fact. He carried no social status, he spoke no words, yet he was constantly frowned upon. He was a silent being, forever accustomed to his own presence. His friends were his dreams. His cries were heard only by him, in the quietest moments of the night; when one ceased to listen. His pain was his to bear, for he was a wretched little boy.

At least, that's what was said.

Perhaps if the little boy had been you or I, socially comfortable, in the right place at the right time, he could have been accepted, despite his awkward stance and his pretentious eyes. But the little boy was wretched, and wretched little boys are always unfortunate.

While he disagreed and deeply pleaded to be acquitted of the horrible title, it plagued him despite any protest. He lived his life haunted by his wretched desires. While once just fairy tales, he never shook the curse it brought him. Real or not; it made no difference.

The wretched little boy learned to accept and love his wretchedness; for that was all that was left. His tears ceased to flow, his silence ceased to penetrate and so he died a wretched little boy.