— Damn you, you bitch, wake him up for school, not let him lay around all day and slack off!

The voice of the stepfather pierced through the walls like a blade, echoing throughout the house. Daniel opened his eyes but didn't move right away. He just lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, where long-dried moisture stains formed shapeless shadows. He sighed.

Another day in this shell of life.

Finally, he slowly sat up, feeling a slight dizziness. The hands of the old oak clock on the wall — rusted, slowly drifting left — showed 7:28. He tilted his head, squinting his eyes. Maybe it was because he hadn't eaten dinner last night. Maybe breakfast would change something.

He turned the knob and cracked the door open.

— DANIEL! SCHOOL!

That tone… it was like a demon speaking through Jack's throat. Daniel knew immediately what was about to happen.

From the left, straight out of the living room, came the stepfather. His black hair, slowly thinning, framed a bald spot at the top of his head, and his long, thick chest beard looked like a ruined carpet. His face wasn't that ugly, but it had become somewhat bloated, with a red pimple on his cheek. The familiar, sour smell of alcohol lingered in his mouth.

— What now?! — he growled, seeing Daniel's grimaced face.

The boy didn't answer. The stepfather pushed him lightly aside and walked into the kitchen, still yelling something about freeloading and work.

Trash — Daniel muttered under his breath.

He turned in the opposite direction. In the hallway, against the wall, stood his mother. Alicja. Once a beautiful woman, now a shadow of herself. A brunette with sunken cheeks, tired eyes. Time had taken a bigger toll on her than it should have.

— What's wrong with him now? — Daniel asked.

— Nothing, son, nothing… — she replied softly.

Her voice was empty. Colorless.

Without replying, he went to the bathroom.

He flicked on the light. It flickered for twelve seconds before finally illuminating the room with a faint, yellowish glow. An unpleasant smell lingered in the air. Shit again, he thought briefly. He approached the mirror.

Black, slightly curly, longer hair. A thin, but handsome face. Green eyes — the same as his mother's.

Used to the stench, he lifted the toilet lid. Nothing bothered him anymore. He used to be able to vomit, but now… now it was just part of the routine. He finished, washed his hands with soap. Probably watered down by his mother.

He turned off the light and fiddled with the door handle, which had slightly jammed. He had to twist it a few times until it finally moved. With his blood pressure already slightly raised, he closed the door and quickly walked to the kitchen.

He grabbed a sandwich before anyone had a chance to say anything. He quickly went to his room, already chewing the first one. At least something.

He plugged his phone into the charger with a swift motion, staring with almost lifeless eyes at the number "72%."

After quickly leaning back, he looked into an old wardrobe with black and green stains.

He reached for his clothes — gray jeans, a gray t-shirt, a dark hoodie. Plain, without any logos. As he ate the second sandwich, he unplugged his phone from the charger. "73%." Without changing his expression, he walked toward his bedroom door.

He approached the front door. Six meters away. He slipped on his shoes. A jacket wasn't necessary. It was only the start of the school year. September 13th.

The last sandwich landed in his mouth. He opened the door, slung his backpack over his shoulder — which was lying on some old, unused shoes in the hallway — and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

The yard. Gray sky. As gray as him. Neither good nor bad. Neither sad nor happy. Just gray.

He jumped over the gate. He was in good shape. The stepfather believed every "man" should exercise. Once, when Daniel ignored his orders, he had to sleep outside.

— Sick bastard — Daniel muttered quietly.

Landing on both feet, he quickened his pace. Glancing at his phone, he saw it was already 7:42. He had fifteen minutes to get to school, and he still needed to pick up his ID from the janitor. He always left it behind because it would get lost at home anyway.

As he walked, he looked up at the sky again. He wondered what it was like to live happily. For a brief moment, he drifted into thought, still walking.

— I just wish I knew what it's like to live — he thought, because what he had lived through in those fifteen years couldn't be called life.

He saw an older couple sitting on a bench and involuntarily thought — did they also have their own dramas that seemed like the end of the world back then?

The school appeared before him. A large, brick building shaped like an "L," with a soccer field, a basketball court, and a running track. Upon seeing it, he felt nothing.

7:55.

— As always — he muttered to himself.

He crossed the gate and headed inside.

The janitor, Patrycja — a short 38-year-old blonde, pretty but already very worn by life — handed him his ID and shoe bags.

— Thanks — he muttered and went on.

The Polish class was on the second floor. As he walked up the stairs, he stumbled slightly.

— Damn it.

In his mind, he noted that he probably hadn't eaten enough.

As he slowly got up on the stairs, he felt a strong jolt and was thrown backward, tumbling down all the stairs he had just climbed.