“Let me out of here! I’m innocent! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Prisoner 2247H, you will cease speaking, now please.”

The Voice silenced him. Dull, flat, and loud, piercingly, painfully loud, it commanded his thoughts and attentions at all times. It was his only reminder that he was not alone in his prison, and that time had not stopped altogether. His prison consisted of two rooms. The first was a square, nearly ten feet in all directions. The walls were a vomit-looking brown color, the carpet a simple gray, and the ceiling paneled with foam tiles. A desk had been placed in the middle of the room. It was made, he knew, to look like an office. In fact, it looked exactly like the office he had worked in before his arrest. He wanted to tear it to shreds.

“Prisoner 2247H, approach the desk please.”

He hated The Voice. It never sounded mocking, but the pseudo politeness infuriated him. On some level he realized that his hatred was a calculated and anticipated response, but he really didn’t care. He proclaimed his innocence now because he had forgotten how to say anything else. He sat down at the desk, and a projection screen was lowered from the ceiling.

“Prisoner 2247H, you will now view footage of yourself before your treatment, should at anytime you feel the need to confirm your involvement, please do so.”

The video began playing. The videos were alternated, and he didn’t think he had ever been shown the same one twice in a row. Often times they were harmless surveillance videos of him at convenience stores, or on the street walking home from work. More often than not, however, they were unending films of grotesque crimes. On the screen, he could see men dressed in all black were dumping truck loads of children into huge pits in the ground. The Voice began speaking again, telling him that he was one of the masked men. It told him that he was responsible for the deaths of thousands upon thousands of children. His mind screamed in pain. The Voice pierced through the screaming, urging him ever louder to confess. His vision reeled; he overturned the desk, tore down the projector, and collapsed on the floor. He heard faintly the soft whoosh as a door to the side of him was opened. He felt a boot connect with his ribs, and The Voice commanded him to move through the doorway. He wasn't sure he could move, but the boot continued to encourage him. He began to crawl, and felt a crunch as the boot found his face. As he passed the threshold, he saw a trail of blood leading back to his room. The side room was much different from his office; it was long and rectangular, barely room to stand, but at least fifty feet from end to end. The room had been tiled in bleached white stone, the glare from the lighting again temporarily blinding him. When his vision cleared, he saw at the other end of the room an officer, seated at a desk similar to the one in his room. It was, of course, The Voice of the intercom that spoke to him from the mouth of the officer.

“Prisoner 2247H, you have been charged with conspiracy, treason, the attempted murder of government officials and the slaughter of innocents. Do you plead guilty?”

“No! I am innocent I tell you! Innocent! I have done nothing wrong!”

He screamed at them, pleaded with them, but nothing worked. They just asked him again and again if he was guilty. He couldn’t take it. He snarled, and flew at the officer as fast as his feet would carry him. He wanted to kill The Voice, wanted to make him understand that he had done nothing to deserve this. He wanted to tear those hateful vocal chords out. As he scratched at the walls, hands grabbed him; soon wooden bats beat him to the ground. He struggled, kicking and screaming as he fell into a dark abyss.

He awoke in his cell. Every inch of his body ached. Spots danced in front of his eyes as he sat up. He didn’t cry out however. More than his vision had come into focus. He saw it so clearly now: he had to be the man in those videos, right? Did it even matter? The Voice told him he was, and that was enough. It hadn't been before, but he had been blind. He was empty now, and in his emptiness he saw the truth.

“Prisoner 2247H, are you ready to confess your guilt?”

“Yes…please.”

It was the way it happened in the Trilankish desert. Sunsets would be wonders for the traveler and a beautiful reminder of day and night for the inhabitants of Jerime. Astrix stood on the top of a sand dune, her bare feet sinking in the sand until resting in between the cooler grains. Sitting down, she waited surveying the landscape lying bare before her.

She had seen it happen a million times before, but every day ended differently. Even if small things changed; the direction of the wind, the ferocity of the sea, it would create a different place, a different time, a different setting Astrix could loose herself in, even if only for the few minutes it lasted.

As the great jeweled sun that ruled the sky during the day descended, it burned a loving gold, and as it hovered near the horizon, tiny shards of light shattered and scattered across the sea. They bounced and glittered off of the water, adorning it with pieces of gold, making the spray sparkle and following the rhythmic rise and fall of the crest of the waves. As the sun started to fold it self neatly out of view, it blazed a deep red, turning the sky to blood. When it had drowned below the sea, pale oranges and pinks dwindled like distress flares, only to be suffocated by the inky blackness of the night as it dripped onto the pale canvass, splattering everywhere, seeking every last nook of light and colour left to destroy. It was at this time that the world that Astrix knew so well turned form its natural state, to one of deception, where the dunes and waves were no different, both being subject to the mercy of the frigid winds summoned by the darkness, and sharing the same unrecognizable colours and shapes. Before the mother moon or the sister stars could guide the lonely traveler, this was when Astrix, alone, still and undetectable could loose herself in the swirling sand and spray.

Hugging her knees, Astrix let the cool night air ripple over her body and tangle her hair. It was so easy for the wind. No tormenting thoughts, no feelings to be broken, no decisions to be made. Just traveling, watching, singing, changing from hot to cold over day and night, every few hours, every week, month, year, and century, rhythmical like the music of the universe and natural. Completely simple.

She laughed bitterly, then sobered. A chill ran down her spine as her own worries wormed their way back into her head. She wrapped herself in her arms and confronted their ugly face.
About a week ago, she had seen her best friend dead on the ground where they were supposed to meet. She didn’t know what happened, or who did it, or how anyone could kill her! But there were people in the desert-coastal secluded city who thought she was to blame. She hadn’t done it! She would never do anything like that! She knew there was ‘evidence’, and that she was there at the time. They had fought recently and so she had a motive, they said. Her best friend….

A solitary tear streaked down her cheek and died, buried in the sand.

The moon was already rising, casting its silvery light across the vast expanse of desert and sea, gilding sand and water with a thin layer of mercury. With it rose hope accompanied by the usual fear, creeping around its edges…. She bit her lip. Was it right to run away from her troubles? Wasn’t she supposed to find a solution?

………..Was there a solution other than this?

In other places they didn’t know. She could be anyone….And maybe, maybe somebody would believe her…

Believe her…….Astrix gave a bitter smile. How much would it take? She had always been good, always done what was asked of her and more…they said they loved her, but they didn’t trust her?

Anger started to course through her veins, anger at life and how easily it could be taken away, anger at happiness for eluding her with an image which can be ripped apart, anger at everyone and everything burned into her heart.

What kind of friends were they? What kind of people would do that? This was hard enough without their suspicions…

Her anger flared into solid determination.

If they couldn’t deal with her, she would just have to find those who could!

She rose, kicking the sand around her, and half ran, half slid to the bottom of the dune. Almost flying with the wind which was pushing her, she ran to the city, perhaps for the last time… She paused. The last time. Well good riddance! First thing in the morning, she would leave, and not be the least bit sorry about it.

I sat with my left hand gripped tightly around the warm wooden handle. The thumb of my right hand slowly moving the chambers, each one with a chilling click, each one with a .38 bullet inside, six in all, slowly clicking as I wait. I sat in the living room, lit only occasionally by the lightning in the distance, rain tapping against the window and the smell of the damp carpet in the air. On the table next to me was my wife’s handbag. I was too angry to touch it. Just looking at it sent tears down my cheek and onto the cold steel of the weapon, my new companion.

A voice started singing from the bathroom which sent my blood pressure in to a rage. What gives this man the right to sing, when I sit and weep? I looked back at the gun in my hand, turned it to its side just to check the safety button. I can’t have any mistakes tonight. I have been waiting and watching for a week now, this is my chance for revenge! This man has taken what is mine, and by looking around his apartment, I believe I am not alone. It is time to stop this.

After waiting for the better part of an hour, the shower went quiet. The water was off and a soft humming came from in the bathroom. He sounds happy with life. He can’t have much of a conscience. I reached up to my top pocket, unclipped my badge and slipped it into my pants pocket. This was not a job for the law, this was personal. I sat one last time running the events through my head that took my wife’s life away prematurely. Killing defenseless woman for money! Now that I think of it, I guess I am part to blame. My wife was my partner but she did not have to be part of the stakeout. Does that mean I am in the wrong right now? I let it go to far and personal.

The humming in the bathroom stopped and I was left in silence. Maybe I have just been engulfed in anger over the last year. I have not slept, hardly eaten and smoked a packet of thirties a day. I have had one common goal, and that is revenge. My boiling blood has been driving me towards this point, and now I have to act. I glanced over at my wife’s handbag again and my hand automatically tightened around the butt of the gun. I could feel my badge digging into my thigh, “You don’t want me to be a murderer, do you Sarah?” Tears started streaming down my cheeks and my heart raced faster. I had about thirty seconds to decide if I should do this or not, before he comes.

I stood up slowly and started making my exit, glancing back at the handbag lying on the table. Lightning lit up the room briefly and I could see bags scattered all over the living room. This guy was sick! So many women murdered, but the law must deal with this guy and let him sit away for a very long time. It’s Time for me to go before it is too late.

“Hey, who are you?” came the familiar voice from the other side of the living room. I saw his silhouette in the frame of the door, lit from the bathroom light behind him. Steam was rising off his shoulders from his shower, making him beast like. Lightning hit again, lighting up his face. I could see the scar from our last confrontation across his left cheek. We stood still for a second until the room went dark again. He started to talk, and I could sense the grin on his face. “Hello John, you know you need a warrant to come in here and get your wife’s lipstick back.” He took a step forward and started rummaging through the drawer by the door. This was personal again, and it was going to end now. I raised my left arm, the .38 looking like the perfect extension to my arm. I knew he could not see what I was doing in the dark corner of the door, because he was not fazed by me raising the firearm in his direction. I raised my right hand and turned the barrel with my thumb. The cold click came through and he turned towards me. Time moved slowly as he raised his gun in my direction. I could see the faces of the murdered women running through my head. Blood started rushing through my veins and down my arms. It reached my index finger and I pulled the trigger once. BANG!

Anger is bitter, revenge is sweet!

I want my cup of tea. Now. Don’t they know that I can’t eat without my cup of tea? How often does the staff have to be told? For God’s sake, my girls have even talked to the nurses about how important this is to my health. I remember them pleading for this simple necessity with the residence’s doctors and staff. At every meeting it’s the same thing. Acting on information is obviously not their strong point!

They probably think that I’m just an old man with a whim. And to be fair, most of them do bring me my cup of tea before serving the others. But every once in a while, they forget. And this is one time too many. Hey, how many times do I have to explain that tea helps me digest?

It’s when I come back from the emergency room that the staff reacts. Oh yes, then they are very attentive to my needs. Because they know that if I don’t come back, whoever takes my spot won’t be so easy to care for. You’d think they’d have the routine down pat by now. Bring tea at the beginning of lunch and dinner. Every day. I’m not a complicated man. Not like the other residents, who keep pushing that annoying buzzer and yelling to be fed, moved and changed. I don’t ramble on like these half-witted folks. I don’t cause trouble! All I ask is that they bring me my tea BEFORE the bloody meal. How hard can that be? Why can’t they do the right thing two days in a row? What is it with these people?

I can’t stay here much longer. These women won’t stop yakking. Why can’t they be quiet for one meal? There can’t have been that much happening in this place in the past couple of hours! If you’re eating, just shut up! You’re probably spitting all over my food. Is she talking to me? I can’t hear a thing with all this banging and clanging. It’s a good thing that I’m not wearing those hearing aids.

Ah, here’s one of those servers! Oh God! How can she be offering me dessert? “Tea. Please.” I’m trying so hard to smile right now but I just don’t feel it coming. She’s acting as if she didn’t even hear me. Didn’t your parents teach you manners? Acknowledge my presence you… you…. She left?

I can’t believe it! Even the hospital had better service! Mind you, that’s probably because they knew who I was and that’s why there was always somebody by my bedside. I didn’t have to wait there. And when I made my grand entrance yesterday, with the ambulance guys taking me up to my room on their special stretcher, they’d paid attention to me then. After all, I had just had surgery to help with this digestive problem.

Don’t they know that? This weekend staff is so useless! They can’t even serve tea to a sick, recuperating man who just came out of the hospital! How can they forget me? This isn’t complicated. Tea. Tea! TEA! Is that somebody coming this way? Why don’t they have proper lighting in this dining room? They keep dimming the lights, more and more with each meal it seems. No, I guess I was wrong.

That’s it; I’ve had enough jerking around. Ignore THIS, you people! Ha! I’m sure that was the sound of something hitting the floor. Let me grab a hold of this table and there, I don’t need your lame wheelchair. You can’t control me that way!
Just watch me go. You can’t keep up with me. There, one less walker in my path. They can’t treat me this way. They’ll have to come and find me in my room now. I’ve endured this long enough! This is abuse! I can feel new pain and it’s their fault. I’m a sick man. They’ll pay for this.

Finally, my room! I’ll just rest a few minutes in my chair until they come.

“Mr. C.! Mr. C.! It’s nighttime. I’ll help you move to your bed.” I must have fallen asleep. Are those my pajamas? These folks are so nice helping me this way. Just like family. Couldn’t ask for anything more.

Runt was anything but what his name implied. At six foot three and 250 pounds (mostly muscle), he was the largest member of the crew. His name had fit, at the time he had been sold as a cabin boy. That was about a decade ago, when he really was a runt. Eight years old, barely four feet and fifty pounds (soaking wet), the thing that won over the captain was his smile. His mother had sold him cheap. She figured since he was sired by a pirate, he rightly belonged to be with pirates, and smiles did not feed a hungry belly.

By his thirteenth birthday, Runt was considered old enough to participate in the more heinous activities that pirates tended to become involved in. From that day, smiling all the while, he trained in use of sword and pistol.

This training came to fruition, less than a year later. A party was sent to Port Tahiti to replenish foodstuffs. This was Runt’s first excursion to a populated area, and curiosity (as the saying goes) killed the cat. To be more specific, Runt killed the beau. His smile, as contagious as it always was, had the women swooning. His mates saw this as a good time to educate him in wenching, and picked a lovely lass for that purpose. Runt was having the time of his life, when the man entered the bed chamber. He had a sword in hand, and was apparently not amused by the giant grin on Runt’s face. When he lunged, Runt had no choice but to defend himself, giving the man a bloody ear-to-ear smile. The girl then came at Runt with a knife. A punch to her face was satisfactory enough to ensure her a nice long nap.

The crew gathered up the stores and returned to their ship, with Runt still smiling. When he asked them why they didn’t bring some women back to continue in this pleasurable pastime, they explained to him about how a woman on a ship is considered bad luck. How misfortunes happened to all those foolish enough to disregard this.

Many adventures followed in the next five years, and Runt found great pleasure in all things pirate. But that was before a woman had come aboard.

They had spotted the other ship that night, because all lights were aglow. Apparently no one had told them about pirates. It was an easy capture, and the other crew were wiped out to the last man. Searching the ship, they found only grains and plants. There was however, a beautiful girl hiding amongst these spoils. When it appeared none understood her language, and there was no treasure to be found, Runt assumed they would just kill her and scuttle the ship.

He was half right. They scuttled the ship. The captain kept the girl. This confused Runt. What of the danger? The captain just laughed, and took the girl to his cabin. That was the last night for the ship. A little before dawn, in what appeared to be foggy conditions, she met with a reef and sank.

Those that made it to the shore of the island, found themselves surrounded by natives. Looking up, a smoking volcano could be seen. Runt was also smoking. This was the first time he had ever experienced true anger. His smile was gone. His blood seemed to be boiling, and his head felt on fire, as if he were about to blow his top. He was a human volcano. How dare the captain cause this catastrophe? How could he take away the only life Runt had ever known? It was lucky for the captain that the natives kept them apart, or Runt would have surely killed him.

Maybe that anger is what the natives saw in his eyes. Maybe that’s the only thing that kept him alive. They were marched up to the top of the volcano. Once there, the natives placed a spear on the ground midway between Runt and the captain, and stepped back. Runt was the fastest. He got to the spear, and using all his pent-up anger, skewered the captain. Then with the captain still screaming, Runt picked him up with the spear and threw his catch over the lip into the mouth of the volcano.

That was the last thing Runt remembered, until he woke up with a bump on his head, in a small canoe, miles offshore. There was a gourd of water and some fruit but no oar. He was at the mercy of the sea, but at least he was no longer angry. It seems that killing the captain had cooled his hot head, as the sacrifice had done the same to the volcano, which, seen in the great distance, was no longer smoking.

I stare outside through my window. I think I am seeing my reflection, but it is only rain. How the weather reflects my emotions, I do not know. The same thoughts come streaming through my head. What have I done to deserve this? Nothing, but yet it is still there. Everyone seems to be against me. I am only a burden.

I look at the clock to the side of me. Two in the afternoon, yet it is so dark and miserable. I feel numb and unpleasant and I wish it would end. My past has been nothing but hatred, not by me, but by others. Why do I feel so lonely? I have not got a clue. Maybe it is because no one cares. They do not even look at me.

The feelings are getting stronger inside. An urge rushes through me in a way I feel I am no longer in control. I start banging on the window with my fists, without getting the result I was aiming for. I grab what ever is nearest to me. It is a tissue box. Useless. I search around impatiently until I grabbed the rocking chair in the corner of the room, not caring if it weighed too much. With the last strength I had, I threw it towards the window. It smashed the intact glass into tiny pieces. I grabbed the pieces and started cutting myself. I could not take it any longer, and this seemed to be the best approach. I learnt otherwise.

As I lay helpless on the floor, I thought I was doing the right thing, but as my last breaths were nearing, I started feeling hatred. I was angry at myself. All the problems I thought I had seemed nothing compared to death. Why did I do it? There were other alternatives, but I was too blind and broken to have realised it. Now it was too late. My life was not that bad. All I had was loneliness and self pity. That is nothing. If I had had the energy I would have hit myself. Born a screw up and die a screw up, that was all I had. I could have done something better with my life, but no, I just gave up entirely, without trying. I am angry and frustrated and there is nothing I can do. Feeling like this makes me realise that before I was not helpless at all. Now I know what helpless feels. What pain feels like. Time seemed to pass so slowly, and as it ticked, I felt more and more ashamed of my cowardly act. Angrier at myself. My last emotion, anger, and I thought it would be satisfaction instead. I felt death coming closer. Maybe I do deserve to die. Someone like me, negative, does not deserve the world. I am ignorant, worthless, selfish… and so sad… why is there no one here to rescue me? My body is so cold, and now everything is dark. I wished for a second chance, but it was too late.

“'Round here mate, we eat oysters,in the shell, raw, they come in dozens or half dozens, mate! A little vinegar and some brown bread, got it? Thats the trouble with you friggin' Swiss nancy boys, all the friggin' same!” At that, he prodded me in the chest with his pink little finger. “Now be a good little puss and try it again. Got it? I will be in the dining room.” He said.

I could take no more! That was it! I lost it! The world turned red. I broke the knife I was holding. My fingers itched to wrap around his little scrawny neck. He was about four feet tall, all scrubbed up in his finery and his hands on his hips. In my kitchen

“Listen!” I snarled out of barely open lips. “Listen well, you jumped-up little piece of crap, I'm a kiwi, I'm straight and this food is the future of this nation's cuisne. Someday, you will look back on this moment and cringe.It will be a dinner party story you will tell for the rest of your life, your soon to be ex-wife will laugh at you, for ever! Now I suggest you leave my kitchen, take your dish, eat it, if you are man enough, and then, you can come back in here and apologise to everyone. Are we clear? Now Bugger off!”

I had spent years in hot kitchens training, experimenting and working to develop something intangible into my cuisine. Giving every waking moment to the thought of my cuisine. I had traveled the world, grown stuff , killed stuff, eaten everything in my path, struggling to get to this point. My own kitchen. Executive Chef! I was beside myself, pacing, furious. New orders had started to stream into the kitchen as the Restaurant filled. I had just grabbed them and laid them under a knife, we had just stood there waiting for him to finish the dish.

My staff nervously looked down at their feet, couldnt bare to make eye contact with me. Somnambulant would be a kind word to describe the way the walked around.! For me to be openly criticised on this of all nights, i felt for tehm as much as I did for me, was I right, was he right. In my mind i went through the dish, looking at each element, checking my process, all seemed well, I know I am right

Three beautiful, freshly shucked Clevedon Oysters, dropped in a little warmed champagne with orange blossom water. Just to stiffen them a little. Placed back in the half shell and drizzled with chocolate & truffled foie gras, finished with a little of the champagne stock as a sabayon foam. I know I am right.

Finally, the doors swung open to reveal the little creep, standing with his plate. His empty plate. He was smiling.

“Delicious!”

The anger left the room.

The man scowled angrily at the ground, the grinding of his teeth could be heard. Slowly he turned towards the man whose neck his hands were wrapped about.
“Where is she? Talk or die!” The frightened man made the mistake to look into the enraged mans blood shot eyes.
“I don’t know! They took her away!” The loud crack could be heard as his neck was snapped. Dropping the limp form to the ground the man left the room in anger. He left no markings of himself behind, keeping the area clean as he kicked the bodies that littered the hall.

Slamming open the door, light burst into his eyes, blinding him momentarily. It didn’t slow down the furious man though; instead it only made him speed up. Jumping up with a hand on the side of the convertible door, he plopped down hard on the leather seat, turning it on.
“Hurry up!” The infuriated scream was heard as the heel of his palm hit the steering wheel hard. The car flicked to life, and without even a moments pause the man was off again. Ripping up the dirt behind him and caring not the death that had been left within the building before.

Hands gripped the black steering wheel tightly, slowly one of the releasing the tight grip, and reaching for the black sunglasses. Placing the shades over his eyes, he let the free hand run through his professionally cut hair. Sweat dribbled down his face, and a bit of blood from the punch that he had taken to the lip.
“I’ll save you from these people my love, just wait to see your knight come in with his shining armor.” A hand fell to the small 9mm pistol that he had kept under his feet, in case there was ever an emergency, he never thought he’d actually have to use it in this kind of situation.

He hadn’t gotten much information, but it was enough to go on, his love was in danger, and he wasn’t going to allow anyone to hurt her. Bringing the pistol along with him he stopped at an abandoned facility, and rushed inside the open door, flattening his body against the wall. Slowly he moved along, rage building up within his muscles and heart. The steaming anger rushing through his blood, giving him the extra adrenaline boost that he needed. The sound of his love screaming could be heard from somewhere in the dank place.
“Where are they keeping you? What are they doing to you? I’ll kill them all!” He said to himself, the veins within his neck beginning to show as he became more and more enraged with the wicked men.

Without even thinking about it he turned around the corner, hearing the shuffle of a pair of feet. Shooting the silence pistol at the noise, he was rewarded with the quiet thump of the corpse hitting the ground. Quickly running down the dimly lit corridor he burst into another room, firing off three more rounds into the men present. They fell down, blood pouring from their heads as they crumpled down lifeless.
“You shouldn’t have touched my baby.” The threat fell upon deaf ears, literally.

There was the scream of his love again, it was coming from the next room, bursting through the door she came into view, but there was a man that stood in front of her. With a sudden shot the blood spattered forward from the frontal lobe of his cranium. Slowly he slumped over, resting down on the hood of the car. Then slid off of it, laying limply on the ground. Walking over, he stood over the carcass and shot three more rounds into the head of the man. After he was done, the pistol was thrown away from himself.

“Sorry that I ever left you my love. I didn’t know that these men were taking you away.” Suddenly the sounds of sirens were wailing outside of the empty place. The sounds of squads running into the old abandoned facility could be heard. With sudden fear he floored the petal, but nothing happened, then a slight chug, and a loud bang. The bomb that had been planted underneath the car exploded, killing the man and his precious car. The police thrown backwards, all fell back and re-gathered to hear their chiefs talking.
“This was a Navy Seal before he was disbanded from the army for extreme violence. He was taken into the psych ward after killing a police officer for touching his car. They took it away to this place knowing he’d come for it, I guess he didn’t think that far ahead in his rage though.” Silence reigned amongst the men as they bowed their head, and said a silent prayer for him.

Yesterday; a day I will never forget. The embarrassment I felt, the utter indulgence everybody else felt as they laughed and laughed at my angry outburst. What caused it you might say? Well, many triggers set this verbal lashing off, and now I will have to live with the guilt and suffering of what I have just done…

Yesterday started off just like any other day. I was strolling through the park, the wind blowing through my hair, and the leaves crunching at my feet. Yes, this was an average day in my life. Coming from a broken relationship, and a near death experience, I was seemingly happy to just stroll through the park without a care in the world. Just as I thought the day could not go bad, I stepped on a shard of glass, tripped over, and landed on a broken bottle. The pain was excruciating, almost unbearable. I let out a cry of anger, mumbling curses to and fro; this was not like any other day I had ever imagined.

I soon went to the pharmacy, trying to get prescription drugs for my leg, arms and nose and chin. My face cringed at every twitch, each one more severe than the next. After two hours, I was finally in possession of some antibacterial cream, hoping this will ease the pain, and inevitably cure the sores of misfortune.

Walking home, I decided to visit my good friend Matilda; she always seemed to put a smile on my face. I rang the doorbell and knocked on the door. Just as that happened, a bucket of paint fell on my head and in between my feet. The anger I felt when falling on that broken bottle was nothing, compared to the intolerance I felt when the paint first hit my head. Matilda ran out the door and cried ‘got you, oh, sorry Francesca, I thought you were Matthew’. Matthew was her ex-boyfriend, and my husband. The fact that she had wanted to play practical jokes on him fired me up even more. I lashed out at her, not because of intention, but because of emotion. How could so many bad things occur to one person in the span of only two hours?

Matilda welcomed me inside, and cleaned the paint of my face and body. She then informed me of a party which was celebrating Jeffrey’s 27th birthday party. I forgot all about it. Matilda said she would be delighted if I came, and I could not resist, I had to oblige. Choosing a dress for the party, in only three hours was a daunting task. I saw so many beautiful dresses, which one appealed to me the most? Eventually, I grabbed seven different dresses, and entered a dressing room. I was having trouble with one particular dress, it just wouldn’t fit. I tried and tried to squeeze my body into this dress. Then, I heard a rip; the dress had a tear in it right down my right leg. I soon realized it was two sizes too big. I screamed with rage, I screamed with haste, but most of all, I screamed with anger. I would consider it impossible for so much misfortune to occur in one day. To make matters worse, I had to pay for the dress, even though there was no chance I would ever wear it again. I finally chose a dress, only $600, and elegantly scraping the floor. Total money spent: $1200, total satisfaction: absolutely none.

I arrived at Jeffrey’s house; I couldn’t wait to see him. The glee and happiness I felt when I arrived was unexplainable. I wanted to be one of the first to greet Jeffrey and congratulate him on reaching 27 years of age. He would have been so proud of me. However, when I had approached him, he was drunk. No, actually, he was intoxicated. He couldn’t tell who I was, and thought I was Matilda. I was shocked; I don’t look anything like Matilda. This angered me, but not to the extent of the other two occurrences. Jeffrey liked my dress, and complimented me; this made me a little happier. Then, one of his friends, Adam was his name, was acting like a jerk. Running around, he laughed and carried on. He didn’t even care to look, but he stepped on my dress, and with one swift action, it ripped in half. I had scars all over my face and body, paint that had never been fully removed from my skin, and now, a ripped $600 dress. If you thought I was angry in all those other instances, you should have seen how much I lashed out at Adam and Jeffrey now…