The sun rose over a city where the dreams of young men were painfully small.
A minimum-wage job. A quiet life. The fragile hope that nothing would get worse.
Corruption was untouchable.
Sickness, poverty, depression, and mental health were irrelevant.
The only thing that mattered was the word of God.
But which God were we talking about?
Honestly, I didn't know anymore.
Alarms rang violently. Dogs barked in hunger. Family members shouted for him to wake the hell up.
"Well! Wake the fuck up!"
The moment I heard my mother's voice, I knew morning had already won. My head felt heavy. My eyes refused to open. My lips barely moved.
Yes—I was hungover.
I drank too much last night.
"I'm fucking awake, okay?" I shouted.
I wished my mother would stop yelling already. I threw the alarm—my phone—across the room and stayed in bed, hugging my legs like a child who hated school.
I know what most of you think of me.
No, I'm not just a lazy slacker who hates his family.
I just hate waking up.
Waking up is a reminder that I'm still alive.
That there's more shit to do—shit I hate doing.
Wouldn't it be easier to not wake up at all?
My mother burst into the room, cutting my thoughts short and ruining my second attempt at sleep. Maybe I should thank her later. Cleaning the kitchen might be a good gesture.
She threw her left slipper at me.
"What's that for?" I asked.
She yelled again.
"Now you listen, you lazy brat! You're late for your first day of high school!"
I exhaled.
"It's six a.m. How am I late?"
"Because your new school is at least an hour away from here!"
I tried to defend myself, but she threw the second slipper. It landed perfectly on my face. Honestly—an impressive shot.
"Go get dressed," she said while closing the door. "And take a shower first. You smell like a homeless fuck-up."
"I hate my life," I murmured.
I really needed a cigarette—but my family would kill me on the spot, and I was already—
Ahhh.
I stayed in the bathroom for almost half an hour, throwing up silently so no one would notice. If anyone suspected I drank, I'd be homeless by nightfall—with a cute scar to remember it by.
Let's not think about that while bathing.
I got out of the shower and dressed as fast as possible. When I looked at my reflection, I almost puked again.
Messy hair that barely qualified as a wolf cut anymore.
Eyes darker than my future.
"I could be sleeping right now," I muttered to the mirror.
"His grades have been falling again!" my father's voice boomed through the house. "How am I supposed to show my face when my son is a fuck-up?"
Our house wasn't that big—but damn, couldn't they whisper?
I let out a pathetic sigh, grabbed my bag, and rushed toward the door before anyone could notice me.
As always, my father did.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he asked furiously.
"To school," I answered, my voice broken—almost drowned out by my mother yelling at my little brother about his weight.
"Raise your damn voice!" my father snapped. "Do you think you're a girl? And what's with that hair? It's taller than your mother's!"
Anyone's hair would be taller than my mother's.
She had cancer last year.
I stared at the floor while he kept yelling, like always.
"Raise your damn head and look at me!"
I opened the door.
"Sorry, I'm late for school. Bye."
And I ran.
If I stayed any longer, he wouldn't stop.
I ran to the bus station like I always did, gasping for air, almost throwing up again.
Only one guy was there.
Tall. Headphones on. Black outfit. Checking his phone. Smoking.
Green eyes. Black hair. At least six-three.
Majestic.
"I should smoke too," I thought.
I opened my bag, praying there'd be something left.
Two cigarettes.
That's my lucky day, for sure.
I put one in my mouth and searched for my lighter.
Nothing.
I forgot it at home.
"My lucky day, my ass."
I sighed.
Just then, the tall guy tapped my shoulder gently.
"Hey, man," he said. "Need a lighter?"
You're an angel, my thoughts slipped.
He laughed. My face burned red. He handed it to me, still smiling.
I lit the cigarette, stealing glances at him. His eyes glowed under the rising sun.
He looked back.
"What's your name?" he asked.
For no reason at all, I blushed. I gathered everything I had to answer, fighting my anxiety.
"I'm—"
The bus arrived.
"Sorry, I didn't hear you," he said. "What's your name?"
"My name is Well," I said.