"-And that's the bell. Remember to read page 7 for tomorrow!" The teacher yelled over the bell, as the class got up from their desks, packed their bags, and went to leave, and banter quickly began to fill the air. Young girls talking gossip, a pair of friends talking about some movie, everyone had something to talk about and someone to talk with.

Except for one. Except for one boy, who still remained on his chair, with his white t-shirt and black hoodie. He sat with his book, and calmly read the page he had been assigned. And as the rest of the people began to leave, he found himself to be the only one in the now empty classroom.

This boy was known as Richard, and he enjoyed the silence. He let out a sigh of contempt as he leaned back into his chair. This piece of plastic used for a chair, most would deem it too uncomfortable, but for Richard, it was just right to lean back in and read in.

"So, Ricky," A deep voice called out in the doorway, followed by footsteps, and a quick swipe of the arm that grabbed the book out of Richard's hands, and held it out in front of him.

It was being held by a hunk of a boy. It was John Scepter, the class bully. "Why're you reading? I thought I told you about forgetting to hand over what you owe," John said, a pretentious smirk on his face.

Richard wanted to melt away. He wanted to melt into the ground and go somewhere where he could find sweet solitude. Away from everything. But as John stepped closer and closer, Richard knew that this wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

The punch was swift, but harsh and hard like iron. Blood flew from Richard's nose as he was knocked to the floor by John's punch. John gave a harsh laugh as Richard rolled around onto his back.

"Where's my money, Ricky?" John asked harshly as he brought his foot down onto his chest, and began to press down. Richard's chest was overridden with pain, as he coughed violently.

"WHERE IS IT?!" John roared as he pressed his foot down even harder.

"In my bag!" Richard finally managed to yell in response. John finally stopped pushing down on Richard's chest, and turned over to Richard's bag, and quickly began rummaging through it, greed hazing his mind.

Richard was left a coughing mess on the floor. His ribcage hurt like hell, and he could barely move. He tried saying something, but it turned into a pathetic incomprehensible wheeze. He closed his eyes, exhaustion taking over his mind.

But John had other plans. A resolute kick in the side brought Richard back to the reality he wished so hard to escape, to merge with the void that connected time and space, to vanish from this reality completely. But as his eyes opened again, he saw John's smirking face.

"It's not enough. Swing by 21st Street by 23:00 with double of this," John snarled, waving the 50 dollars in front of his face. "-And maybe I won't hurt you again." Richard sighed, why couldn't anything be easy for once? How was he supposed to get 100 dollars by tonight?

John turned to leave, but not before kicking Richard in the stomach with full force, knocking whatever air he had breathed in right out of him, and spat in Richard's face.

He left Richard there on the floor, leaving Richard all alone in the empty classroom. Richard panted heavily, the pain in his ribcage still not subsiding. He stretched out his arms, and grabbed hold of one of the tables near him, and began pulling himself up onto his legs.

As he began to pull himself upwards, both his ribcage and legs began hurting awfully in protest, and Richard cried out in pain. The table creaked in protest as well, but in the end, Richard finally stood up on his legs.

He picked up his bag, and began limping home.

His legs hurt with every step, and every time his shoe met the sidewalk, a wave of agony traveled up his leg and shook his body.

But finally, after a few agonizing hours, he finally reached the apartment building he called his home, if it could even be called that. The very building seemed like a rotten tree, with plants and vines snaking up along the walls.

Richard lazily made his way up the rotten creaky stairs towards the little apartment that was home to him. The steps creaked loudly as he slowly ascended to the third floor.

Finally, the agony ended, as he had finally reached the third floor. The door was ever-so-slightly open, with just a thin line of vision inside. The silence was deafening. Richard pushed open the door, and immediately ducked, expecting a bottle of alcohol to be thrown at him.

But it didn't come. No sound of glass shattering on the door, no burping from his drunken father, just silence. It was unusual, but he welcomed this unusual change. He slowly walked towards his small room, walking as slowly as possible as to not wake his father.

As he entered his room, it was filled with darkness. He fumbled a bit around in the dark, until he got hold of the string and pulled it, lighting the single light bulb in the ceiling, his only source of light. He stepped over to the small mattress which served as bed, chair, and general furniture. It was all he had in there, but he cherished it.

He sat down and breathed in whatever air he could. He would need it. He didn't have 100 dollars, and no way was his father ever going to give him 100 dollars, even if he hadn't spent it all on booze. Richard was in for a massive beating at John's hands.

The mattress was great at many things, including the many, many tears Richard had shed over the years. The tears fell one by one, dripping down one by one onto the mattress, and were absorbed quickly.

Richard had no-one to comfort him. Not a soul would spare him a thought if he were to die. Maybe it would be best if he was simply erased from the pages of history? Maybe it could improve the world somehow, if he were to simply be erased; to disappear, to be relieved from his miserable life.

But he could never get that. He was a nobody, worth nothing; not even worth killing. All these thoughts flooded Richard's mind, squeezing out even more tears. He looked up, and what he saw, halted his tears momentarily.

On the floor, stood a single, solitary picture, that stood steady beside his bed.

He slowly picked it up with in the both of his hands. His tears had stopped, but the moment his eyes perceived the image before him; the tears began flowing once again.

The image was from his three year birthday. He could still remember it; he still had the present his mother had given him, only a few days before she passed away into obscurity. A leather rooster mask, which still fit on him like a glove.

That was one of the few happy days he could ever remember.

Richard opened the door, and was greeted with the setting sun's rays. Only a few hours until he had to hand over the money he didn't have. Fear and melancholy began to fester as the sun slowly dipped into the horizon.

The walk towards John's house seemed to last an eternity as he trudged silently towards the house, his one item of comfort, his rooster mask.

John's smirking face came back in his mind. The laughter as he continually kicked and punched him, and took whatever he had every day for five years.

And now, he was headed right for that same thing. His mind screamed to run, to escape from it all, to find a cold, damp place to die in peace.

But there was one speck of something different in Richard's mind. And it wished not for happiness, not for pleasure, not even for silence.

But for vengeance. Bloodlust. This tiny speck wished revenge for everything he had been put through; to scream 'I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!' to the world, and to finally rid himself of fear.

That speck grew in strength for every step. He wished his mother wasn't gone, he wished John didn't hurt him, he wished his father wouldn't drink, he wished someone would care, he wished for love and kindness. But he never got it. The world had ignored him, and now, he would ignore the world.

He stood in front of John's house. The house was big; his parents were clearly rich. John was probably playing baseball or something similar in the yard, he could hear several voices, he even saw a baseball lying in the grass along with a bat.

He breathed in. He stared at his rooster mask once more, his final memory of the days now past.

He pulled it over his head, and began walking towards the voices, picking up the bat and hiding it behind his back. He stepped into the yard and met with the baseball-playing boys and girls. John, the largest of all the people in the yard called for the game to be stopped, and began walking towards Richard, unaware of the bat.

"What's with the mask, Richard? It's not Halloween!" John yelled, causing laughter from every other kid in the yard.

"Now, I hope you brought the money, or-" John began, as he leaned in towards Richard, "-You'll wish you were never born," John spoke, still flashing that smug smirk he always did.

He never saw the bat coming. With years of bottled-up anger and fury, Richard swung the bat into John's face, drawing blood and sending teeth flying. The other people cried out in horror and surprise, as Richard walked over to John's figure lying face-up in the grass, baseball-bat still in his hand, his unspeakable fury hidden behind his mask.

Richard then let out an animalistic roar, and began bashing John's head in with the blunt piece of wood. Pieces of skull went flying; blood and spit flew wildly like a fountain as Richard unbottled the many years of anger and melancholy he had accumulated over the years. John's skull was smashed and battered, his eyes still alight with fear as Richard continued hammering it down into his skull, continuing long after John had gone limp and any and all signs of life had been hammered out of him.

After what seemed like forever, Richard finally stopped, his mask and jacket covered in blood. He stood up, the rest of the people eyeing him like he was crazy. Of course he was. The sound of police sirens, most likely called by one of the kids, approached fast.

But Richard didn't care, as he rushed with hellish speed and fury towards the others, his mind finally broken.