Void

Pedro woke up and lay there, waiting for his mother to call him for school as she always did. After a few minutes, the dawn fog gave way to the clarity of consciousness. He opened his eyes reluctantly.

Daylight already announced itself even through the closed curtains, there was no movement throughout the house, and the silence was broken only by the lazy, intermittent sound of the fan slowly oscillating from side to side.

Pedro remembered the aroma of fresh coffee whenever his mother woke him. He didn't drink it, in fact, he detested that bitter taste, but at that moment, he would drink all the coffee in the world if he could feel that familiar aroma again. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and almost fell back asleep when he remembered it was Monday. He grabbed his phone from under the pillow and checked the time.

— 7:03, damn it, I'm late again...

Pedro got out of bed in a rush, stumbling over the mess scattered around the room. The growth spurt that came just before he turned sixteen had stretched his limbs, giving him a lanky and awkward appearance. The smaller-sized clothes didn't help either, making him look even more stretched out. When he looked at his desk for the neatly folded uniform his mother always left, he found only a clutter of study materials. His shoulders slumped, and he went searching for the uniform.

The curtains remained closed, leaving the house immersed in a darkness that mirrored the void of absence. He found the uniform in the laundry basket. He had no choice; he'd have to wear it dirty.

After getting dressed, he grabbed his backpack and headed to the kitchen, hoping there would be some leftovers to serve as breakfast. The sink was piled with dirty dishes, leftovers, empty beer cans and bottles, and plenty of flies. The sour smell of stale beer and spoiled food filled his nostrils, but Pedro seemed no longer bothered by it. On the table, among other cans, there was a pizza box. "Another Sunday night of drinking; I hope he left at least one piece," he thought.

To the boy's disappointment, the box was half-open, and a cockroach had found the last piece before he did. Pedro threw the box with the pizza and the cockroach in the trash and left, slamming the door in irritation and hunger.

At school, the coordinator made him serve his usual penalty: writing a fifteen-line essay before the start of the second class. In the past few months, Pedro had written so many essays he could compile a book. The coordinator didn't impose harsher punishments out of respect for his family situation. However, she did require him to attend a weekly session with the school psychologist.

Throughout the day, he went through the Renaissance, the laws of thermodynamics, syntactic analysis, and even trigonometric equations and inequalities. He tried hard, but his mind betrayed him, and he couldn't focus on anything; it was as if he were floating all day in a hyperbaric chamber.

Precisely at five o'clock, the therapist called him into the room. Pedro entered, hunched and downcast, followed by the therapist. Seated face to face in the small baby-blue room, he remained silent, fiddling with the strap of his backpack resting on his lap, as usual.

— How was your weekend, Pedro? — the therapist asked, breaking the silence.

— The same as always. — Pedro replied evasively.

After jotting down a few notes, the therapist continued: — Did you do the exercise I suggested?

— Actually, no, I tried, but when I put the pen on the paper, I can't write anything, about anything.

— What do you feel at this moment?

— Weakness, fatigue, discouragement, I feel like I'm not capable.