. . . At such a time I found out for certain, that this lovely aroma overcoming my nose was from this little restaurant rested along the street; and that Pablo Garcia, my good old pal, and also Sam Sung from elementary, were rested inside; and that Dwight, Pam, Jim, Kevin, and Michael, all my fellow co-workers, were also somehow fitted within this puny restaurant; and that deeper in beyond the customers, there were little to no chefs, with only a few stoves, polished counters, and a small portion of food rested neatly just behind the counter, and that feeding on this aroma inducing food, was the chefs; and that the countertop separating the customers and the chefs, was the strongest; and that the space where the heartless people eating the food rested held a fan from which the aroma was spreading, was the dirtiest; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was me.
A broken child, covered in red, with a knife held to his wrist. A child with no parents, and with torn clothes, and with a messy length of hair covering his beautiful eyes. A child who had been left alone, and covered in scars, and kicked, and drowned, and looked at as nothing; who sat still, and smiled, and turned cold; and whose eyes left still revealed a single tear as I stood there watching.