Nobody liked Pedro. Not even Pedro liked Pedro. He was such a failure and he knew it. He tried to be relatable all the time, by hanging round with the older kids as they played football with his lifeless body, or he would punch himself repeatedly in the nose to get a nosebleed for just a shred of attention. Alas, the only attention he would get would be when he was being beaten into a weeping pulp by his classmates.
Pedro lay his bruised, battered, beaten, black and blue, bleeding corpse into his crib. He had tried to impress Hobo Joe by taking his off-White shirt off, but he ended up falling over his metatarsal, crushing his face onto the filthy pavement and knocking himself unconscious for the next twolve hours. The young foal sighed, as salty tears the size of Russia slipped down his scarred cheeks. He cried himself to sleep (like he did every night) and he wished he was a worm, so he could die. Suddenly, the flickering light bulb attached to the ceiling by a mere thread of wool, snapped in half like Pedro's hopes and dreams and hit the sleeping child on his lice-ridden noggin. Pedro jolted up in surprise - he had an idea, and it was as banging as house singing! He would run away to join the circus!
