Oct 21 · 2 min read
Old sketch of mine

What if I told you that I’m not like the others?

The spare keys are in the usual place. I’m not. I climb the stairs, opening a door that is no longer mine. Beyond it, nothing. The evening filters through half-closed shutters, revealing bare walls and empty furniture. I want to turn on the light, but I can’t, there is no electricity. There are only pots and dishes, no food. I open the faucet, the water is brown. I close it, disgusted. I feel like crying, but I don’t. I open the faucet again and I wait until the water returns transparent, I am so thirsty.

What if I told you that I will never give up, ever?

I grab my backpack, it’s heavy, and I drag it into a room that’s not mine anymore. There is only the mattress placed on the bed, no blankets, no pillows. Next to the bed, only packed boxes, ready to take away. My computer is no longer here. Do you know what happens if you put your wet swimsuit together with all the other clothes, closed in a bag, in summer, for a whole day? I need a washing machine. Nobody knows I’m here, not even me. The phone is almost dead, but nobody is looking for me. I do not have money. I’m hungry. I fall on the grave of what used to be my bed, and I explode.

What if I told you that I’m ruining your life?


Written by

Male, 24, Italy. Freelance comic book artist and illustrator. Unapologetic troublemaker. Extreme coffee evangelist. Superhero.

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