Exposure to restricted entities may cause one harm. But exposure to wrong might cause a harm that is far crueller. Kismet is the master. It pronounces everything; all pre-decided.
In the systematic universe where life and beings exist, governance is...
The evening was cold; colder still to the man who lay paralyzed under the foreign roof, soused in the puddle of his maroon-red gore. A lamenting slaughter of his form by the hands of his and innumerable others' sinners was the cause. The pain was undefeatable.
But the excruciating pain in his heart was distinguishably far overpowering. He regretted ever going there-
House no. 3069, Sajik-ro-3-gil 23.
The place: it had proved to be too far from a pleasant site for him.
But that wasn't what he regretted the most: He couldn't get to finish what he started after all. And the realization that he wouldn't be able to, caused him his unending misery. He had estimated his fate, and he had familiarized himself into submission to the same.
For, after all,
The fragrance of death is, was ever, the most distinguishable, oblivious to none.
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The eve was cold; colder still to the boy who, oddly, had been inattentive to the temperature drop that dulled his surroundings.
Staying ignorant could sometimes fruit better than action—the thought roamed in his head. He had decided: Negligence was the only door he could seek to spar against his devilish world.
The frigid air that was dancing through the otherwise vacuum surroundings, domineering on the eeriness of the mute street, added to his despondency.
His senses were clouded with memories of loathing from hours not so long back ago. Those hateful words kept booming in his head...
'Your mother is mental. Explains why you ended up like this, you loser.'
'Mental? She's a witch. We shouldn't be speaking to this freak. What if his mother turns us into rats?'
'She'll be set on fire by the people before she does any of that sort. That's how witches are supposed to die.'
'Haha, good one. But you know, before even any of that happens, I'm sure they'll lock her and him in an asylum. Mentals! Seriously, how did he even get admitted to this school?'
The thoughts started giving him a headache.
He walked ahead, his heavy school bag loosely hanging onto him for support. His limbs trembled from both fatigue and the cold, the former especially. He hadn't had the chance to adapt to walking very well ever since he started his schooling(around eight years that should be). Moments of kicking pebbles along the way, minutes of heavy sighing, numbers of stunt of his skin and hair reflecting against the foreign frigidity later, he landed on his parents' asset.
