Poisoned Youth
the Anathema
Hadrian Thane struggled up a flight of stairs with his guitar case and a single cardboard box overflowing with the rest of his belongings: laptop and charger, headphones, an old GameBoy with a couple games, a few worn, leather-bound notebooks, an assortment of pens, two pairs of jeans and a set of pajama bottoms, two T-shirts, a hoodie, and a few comic books. In his back pocket, he had one twenty dollar bill.
He groped for the tiny slip of paper he had scrawled room number on to verify the door he stood before him was indeed his. 404.
"Error: Not found," he muttered bitterly to himself and slid the key in.
He slammed his guitar and his box on one bed, then threw himself on the other, relaxing only momentarily, before sitting up and digging his notebook from the box. He scribbled, "The boy sighed as though he could exhale all of worries of the world, finding bizarre comfort in the unfamiliar."
This had been an eventful month.
He groped for the tiny slip of paper he had scrawled room number on to verify the door he stood before him was indeed his. 404.
"Error: Not found," he muttered bitterly to himself and slid the key in.
He slammed his guitar and his box on one bed, then threw himself on the other, relaxing only momentarily, before sitting up and digging his notebook from the box. He scribbled, "The boy sighed as though he could exhale all of worries of the world, finding bizarre comfort in the unfamiliar."
This had been an eventful month.