‘Your problem, just rot now, rust and rot away,’ muttered a sinister voice. I was acquaint to loathsome words like these. I attempted to calm myself down, like that refined lady down four profound blocks. That lady had quite the phlegmatic attitude. The empty, placid street was privatized but the vast depths of it made it resemble a haunted street. If anyone shall live on this abysmal, horrid street, they shall become triskaidekaphobic, fearing the number thirteen, or in this case, 13th Dither Boulevard…
The gregarious people here are filthily rich, blagh. With picturesque townhouses neatly arranged in quaint little rows. So, why, me, a destitute ragamuffin, observing townhouses, without a single person worrying I was part of the Freemasons or whatever. I’ve been called a Freemason, but alas, I’m not.
The people here welcomed me, dears, really. I shall have tread mud onto their slippery, marble floors. I was lonely and my lack of family enlarged my tears.
Sigh sigh sigh.
I had multifarious qualifications, I was adequate enough, hailing from a renowned college. You would probably think that such a forlorn person like moi shall find an atrocious amount of jobs, but alas, your mind has been tricked.
Some people never learn to accept people for who they are, and you guessed it, they don’t accept me.
That’s why I don’t have a job.
Madame B, the lady in one of the townhouses, explicitly in Ripple Townhouse 50A9, looked relatively crestfallen for the penultimate time (yes, really) in her 6 decades and 3 years of life.
I lived in Dubai and I lacked money to live in such a gaudy place, as a child, we lived in one of the townhouses, that’show they all knew me. Got any more questions?
I would still have inhabited that gargantuan townhouse, if only 2 people hadn’t stopped to see white lights…
My story is filled to the brim with dastardly sorrow and inevitable woe, and it is highly advised to stop reading, but, that decision is yours…
But if you may continue, sometimes, a little light might shine on the page…
To Be Continued…