Just like he did when he was a kid, when the screaming escaped through the open doors, he passed the fingernail across the softest part of his arm, back and forth, once and again, turning it from pale to light pink until a subtle line of blood drew his distress. Now the source of his anguish wasn’t his parents but life, or rather the lack of it, so he thought. Is it life a life without love, a job, nothing to believe in? While he was struggling between yes and no, his nail, his body, had already decided.
