“I look like s**t.”

Normally, Paris wasn’t one to curse. It wasn’t that he didn’t like such words -- claiming that when one considered the varying bawdy situations he willingly got himself into would seem a bit ridiculous. No, he didn’t use them simply because he rarely felt as if they were needed. He was dramatic enough without throwing curses around to get his point across. Excessive use of such words as “a**,” “damn,” and “********” was, in his opinion, unnecessary and, frankly, unimaginative.

This morning, however, he could find no other word that fit. “Crap” would have been much too tame, he thought, and much too generous. He didn’t merely look like crap -- he looked like the worst possible form of crap. His eyes were bloodshot and smudged beneath with purple, his skin was paler than skin had any right to be, and he just looked… awful. Absolutely awful. A quiet night at home that should have been more restful than remaining at school had somehow led to little sleep and a horrible Saturday morning.

First, he’d rolled out of bed -- much later than he’d intended -- and stubbed his toe on the side of his desk, at which point he’d whined and hopped around until he fell ungracefully to the floor. Next, he’d gone to feed his beta fish, only to find Alejandro floating belly up in his bowl. After much sniffling and pouting, Paris had scoop him out and tried to give him a proper burial down the toilet, but it decided to clog for no apparent reason, and so the funeral he’d intended to be calm and peaceful had turned into a laborious fight with the plunger. Then, after he’d gotten over the sudden and inexplicable death of his poor, beloved fish, he’d climbed into the shower only for the water to go cold sooner than usual. While the shower was known to act as such, he typically had more than five minutes of hot water on a normal day.

“Damn it,” he cursed again after plugging in his hairdryer only for it to sputter and die seconds after turning it on. He slid the switch back and forth in an effort to trick it into working, but none of his attempts seemed to make any difference, and so he was left shaking it in his frustration and anger, before slamming it onto the bathroom countertop. “******** piece of s**t! Why won’t you work?!”

Great! This was just fantastic! Now his hair wouldn’t dry properly and it’d look like a complete mess! Curse his hair! Curse his mother for giving him his hair! And curse the whole ******** world for just being so ******** uncooperative today!

He stalked out of the bathroom in a snit, pulling his damp hair back into a much of a ponytail as he could force it into as he returned to his room, searching around for something to wear. He wanted to get out of this damned house. He didn’t know what he’d do once he left it, but he knew that if he stayed he’d probably end up breaking something, and he didn’t want to risk destroying any of his important possessions.

Unfortunately, dressing only led to further frustration. His favorite shirt had a stain on the front of it -- though he couldn’t remember how it had gotten there -- and the only pair of jeans he actually liked decently enough to wear over and over seemed to have magically acquired a hole in the knee. He eventually settled on his third favorite shirt -- he’d left his second favorite at school -- and one of the few skirts he had to match. He couldn’t tell if it was clean or not, though at this point he didn’t really care. Finished dressing, it took him nearly ten minutes to find the exact pair of shoes he wanted to wear -- which had somehow gotten lost beneath his bed.

He applied a quick layer of gloss to his lips, worried that any more effort would end in disaster, and grabbed his phone and a hand bag before heading out the door, slamming it behind him when he heard his father begin to make his usual inane comments. He paused on the front porch to take a breath of air -- not the freshest he’d ever smelt it, but it could have been worse -- then descended the steps with the intention of hitting up a local café for a cup of hot chocolate and a few pastries. He deserved the treat after the morning he’d had.

It was as he was taking the final step, setting his foot down on the worn, broken path that led to the squeaky front gate and onto the sidewalk, that his ankle gave a little twist, and a quiet noise that sounded like a mixture of a crack and the rending of fabric alerted him to the fact that something wasn’t quite right. Suddenly he was off balance. He stumbled but somehow managed to catch himself on the porch railing, relieved that while he might be in the midst of some shitty luck, he hadn’t fallen flat on his a** for the entire neighborhood to see and laugh at.

Glancing down didn’t make him feel any better, though, as Paris saw that the heel of one shoe had broken -- snapped off and leaving the shoes he’d spent so much time searching for un-wearable.

“Oh, for ******** sake!” he cursed again. “These were my favorite pair! Son of a b***h! Christ, ********, s**t, damn, ******** little old man across the street paused in leaning over to pick up that morning’s paper. Paris thought he heard him chuckle.

Defeated, Paris sat down heavily on the last step, letting out a shriek of rage that echoed down the street.