I bought several books. So much so that the entire space was filled with stacks of them. I read as much. You could say I was addicted to them. I would agree because I filled my head so that I could forget the void in my chest.

Outside of my reading, I tried to look for a pet. At first, I thought a cat or dog would do. Which do I lean toward? It's a secret. Then, I thought that it would be too much for me. I'd heard from somewhere that keeping a canine for a pet was like raising a child; you had to do it right. I was unsure of myself. How the hell would I know the right way of keeping a pet?

Then I thought a fish would do. I almost went to a pet shop, but then I saw a poor fish open and close its mouth ceaselessly, and it gave me a headache just thinking about how it would always appear to be saying something, but in actuality, there was hardly any substance to its words.

At this point, you might say, you think a lot. Well, I got to. I tended to stay in my head a lot because that's a place I felt safe. Thinking out loud within the four walls made me think that I was in an asylum or on the track to get there.

Thinking was much safer.

But soon they took a dark turn, and yet I was unable to extricate myself from their onslaught since I was used to it.

In my head, I realized that even if I failed to wake up the following day, the world would go on. For someone in my situation, it was like popping a cyanide pill into my mouth. Such thoughts became my solace. My comfort place.

How could I feel comfortable with such agonizing thoughts bombarding my head? It's simple, actually. I was used to it. The comfort of the known, even if painful, was much better in comparison with the vast unknown world around.

I know, some might paint me as a scourge on the face of the planet and express that I should try to make something out of myself, but understand, I was barely getting out of the slimy mire inside my mind. I beat the world before it even thought of striking me because I thought that way, it would hurt less.

Day by day, I injured myself. All the dissatisfaction, the worthlessness, the hate, all of it, bottled up inside. That was until I decided to end it all.

What's the point? I thought. I wanted to see if anyone would care to mourn me. It's quite absurd! If someone did, as if I'd be around to witness it.

This was wrong. I knew it. I felt it. But it wasn't strong enough to push me toward change.

Then I entered an internet cafe and searched for the top ten most beautiful places in City. If I were to transform into a ghost, I would want to haunt a pretty, beautiful place. I took a printout of the list. Halfway into the list, I lost interest. What a waste!

If you told me a thing or two about divine intervention when I was an ignorant kid, I would have laughed in your face, but if I had to name a specific event in my life, it would be this.

Deeply frustrated with my indecisiveness, I took a walk.

I used to walk a lot. It's probably that which preserved my youth.

My feet, with a mind of their own, led me to a familiar street. In the dark, it was barely recognizable. I saw the shady bakery where I'd made my first purchase. Feeling strangely nostalgic, I approached it. Though my food standards had increased, I still craved the stale bun. I suppose I wanted to tell myself how far I'd come.

I saw a few men scruffling over something inside the bakery. One of them was the owner, the tall man. He grunted and groaned as he punched and got punched. I watched my conscience as I turned around and darted away before anyone could notice me and pull me into the fight. There were far too many men, and I would end up with broken bones. It's pragmatism at its finest.

You remember the owner had a daughter? She was skinny and scrawny and wore coarse clothes?

I saw her huddled in the corner of the street, crying.

She saw me and grabbed my arm.

I almost thought she recognized me from before. That momentary elation was a true high. Then came the crash when I realized, upon seeing her snotty face, that she was barely holding on. I guess I saw a bit of her in me. Most of the time, even I wanted to sob into my hands.

'Help,' she croaked weakly before she collapsed. She hung awkwardly in my arms, and I had little idea as to how to proceed with this tricky predicament. Of course, the simplest way would be to call the police, but because of my profession, even the thought of standing close to them gave me a headache. So I did what anybody in my situation would do: I took the girl in my arms (she was a wee little thing) and hurried toward my hideout.

Her father was a big man. He'd probably be gravely injured at best.

The girl was all that mattered.

I had my doubts about the relationship between the two of them. Her father was stout, while she was malnourished. What kind of father doesn't feed their daughter? Her being as light as a feather filled my heart with some grievances.

I made a promise to myself that I'd feed her well before returning her. If my courage remained while I faced her father, I would give him a piece of my mind as well. Something like, raise your kid well, feed her, etc, etc.