A lone figure looks out of the window, watching the city below. He looks at the bright city, full of life. He stops looking out the window at the sound of his office door opening. “Have you found him yet?” The man stood in the doorway for a second before pushing a kid through the door. The man nodded and looked at the kid on the floor. “So… I heard that you’re not writing anymore.” He said. The child looked up at him and frowned. “Look, I’m not a machine; you need to let me have time so I can finish writing the story!” He exclaimed. The man just glared at him. “So the little writer needs time now, does he?” He said mockingly. The child looked up at him and before he knew what was happening, the world was red.
The shovel hit the soft earth, sending bits of dirt and rocks across the ground. The child was carrying a bag which was leaking a warm liquid. “I hate that guy. He always orders me around like he owns me.” He muttered, throwing the bag into a hole that he had finished digging. “First he wants me to write faster, then he wants me throw this garbage away. What the hell does he think I am?” He said as he covered the hole with dirt. The child turned and walked back towards town, cursing the man under his breath.