most likely goodies ; an update book

something i never finished

He's staring back at his reflection. The monitor screen is pitch black and all he could see is a hazy version of himself; a former shell if you will. He's still in denial. Surely it would be a joke, right? They're all known for being pranksters, so how is this much different?

It's completely silent.

He doesn't know what to expect, but he's wanting something. He's craving a return call; he's craving for some type of an apology. Maybe a laugh, maybe a scream, but he's craving something. He knows that something is never coming.

It's been thirty two minutes, give or take, since the call had ended.

He's still speechless. It's degrading that they all chose money over friendship. There are voices screaming in his head to make a call back; if he just convinced them hard enough maybe they'll listen to him. He couldn't comprehend what he did wrong, however. All his insecurities are piling up again, and he doesn't know how to stop them.

He sighs half heartedly and figures he should call it a day. He hesitantly leaves his computer table, not bothering to push in the chair, and scurries into the bedroom. It's still awfully quiet and he just sulks under the covers.

He figures that they'll call him up in the morning. It all must be a joke, right? They can't just let him go this easily. They gave him no warnings to this event, no signs that something was brewing in their heads. He knows that all of this has happened in the past before, however, and it wouldn't be too improbable that they'd do this. He should have saw it coming.

He's very different from the others.

He's boring, he's quiet, and he, quite frankly, has a dry sense of humor. His quirks hit sour notes and he's not worth keeping around. He figures that all of these reasons are just the base of why they decided to kick him out. He's just a bad image; something not to keep around - like mud on new shoes.

He's lucky that none of them know how he looks like, and he's also lucky that he was the only one who decided not to show his face in the Skype call. His eyes are still damp and sore from the tears he, not so silently, shed. No one would hear; he had muted his mic. Not that they would have cared for his opinion anyway.

He's struck hard in the stomach as he's just laying there in bed. He could give less than two shits about sleeping, he can't. His mind is too active despite it being around three in the morning. He's tired, but he's hungry for more information. He knows he can't call them again; they simply won't pick up.

He's useless to them.