[ClaytonN]

The air was stale. The continual flickering of the overhead fan was an omnipotent reminder of the wrecklessness at hand. His turmoil could be felt, could be smelled. The lamp, barely casting a light over the end of the room, served more as a caster of shadows than a giver of light. His presence could be felt, or as his mother would point out, it would be reckoned with. "No, mom, I don't want any more [censored] brownies!", he would yell.

His situation was desolate, his mind a wasteland. His existance, much as his favorite bronx bombers, were seemingly futile. It had been days (or was it weeks?) since he was banned from two plus two, and life just did not feel the same. The incessant ticking, the ticking of the overhead fan. Tick, tick, tick. The phantom sounds would continue to echo through the night, reminders of the keystrokes and long nights he would endure causing melancholy among his brethren.