Beep. The alarm rang loudly, he slowly walked up the stairs to make sure he didn't wake his parents, they were fast asleep. He walked down the stairs with his bag in his hand and opened the door; it was 4 A.M. yet another sleepless night. He walked down the street turning his head wearily just to make sure the lights weren't illuminating from his house, as if he truly cared if they caught him or not, he didn't. He walked, and walked, and walked not truly knowing what he was doing or where he was going.
His bag carried the contents that defined his life; scrap papers, his retainers, a gray mechanical pencil, a box of cigarettes, a red lighter, and an empty ring box. After a minute or two he seized his box of cigarettes, there were only two left, he pulled one out and stuck it in his mouth. The last was facing upwards he called it his Lucky Lucy. "Heh!" he scoffed at the idea, he wasn't lucky and nothing was going to change that. He pulled out his lighter and slid his finger across it to make a small ember, and then he lit his cigarette. He loved the smoke, the light headedness, the stench of the slow painful death he was going to have but he didn't care much for it, or anything in fact.
His thoughts were loud and violent they filled him with misery, "What am I even doing?" he thought to himself as though he did not know the answer. He was walking. Nothing more. Nothing less. He had things most would die for, a perfect family, a nice house, intelligence, good looks, but he was missing one thing, he was missing her. He didn't want anybody else, so he walked alone, only the sound of the crickets chirping kept him company. The night sky was pitch black and the stillness of the air around him emitted an eerie aura. This was when he could truly be himself. After a couple of deep puffs, the storm in his head began to quell, he started to think clearly. He knew he had to give up, she would never love him, she could never see him as anything else. But he couldn't, he didn't know how to, he belonged to her. He was trapped, incarcerated; his soul flowed through her veins and arteries. He was a part of her and he knew it was far too late to forget. It was his own fault after all; he destroyed everything, just like he always did.
She liked to mess around but she never knew what it did to him, he never really told her. He never told her anything, he just lied; he did it for her. His strength, his power, he wasted it all on her. She took the ring, she took everything, but she never really gave back the way he truly wanted her to. She didn't know he walked, she didn't know the toll it took on his body, on his very being. But he didn't care, after all he didn't ever care, or at least that's what he told himself. All he did was walk, until he realized he had nowhere left to go. "After all everything ends at some point," he told himself, all he could do was walk back and continue to lie. He had to be strong he'd crack every now and then but he knew what he had to do and he did it. He did whatever he could to stay strong. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his foot. It would all be alright as long as he could pretend to be somebody he wasn't. He could pretend to be happy with what he had, even though he was missing the only thing he truly ever wanted, he was missing her.
He reached his house, snuck back in, and went to his bed room. He reeked of smoke, he was after all a polluted human being; it suited him well. He put his bag away, tucking it in his closet securely, and slid onto his rough creaky bed. He shut his eyes tight, knowing he wouldn't sleep, but he did it anyways. His love for her, much like this, would never work and yet he loved her anyways. He had to prepare for the next day and so he lay on his bed, eyes closed, light headed, and ready to continue the life he pretended to love so much.