There was a smell of wet leaves stuck in the drain outside, the air slowly warming again after one of the end-of-summer storms. The work needed to remove them would take more effort than just leaving them there to rot and closing the window if it got too offensive.

A life spent comparing to others, a life spent alaways thinking that they were right. After all, the aggression in thier voice suggested that they couldn’t be wrong. Authority and a sharp high pitched tone always meant trouble, another round of being shouted at for perceived mistakes.

It didn’t seem worth the fight, didn’t seem worth the trouble. After all, it would go away again when someone else became the latest nuisance, but then it would be back again soon after, stronger and more hurtful, looking for the reaction, on the scent of blood.

A broken man, a shattered dish with sharp pieces hiding in the darkest corners of the kitchen. There’s nothing left, a kitchen conundrum contemplating the carving knife at the callous steel sink. Everything is cold, the leaves don’t matter anyway.

The rain started to tumble down as the wind blew the drops in circles, forming puddles, ripples and finally dislodging some of the debris from the drain.

It could wait until tomorrow, the thoughts would still be there, so would the blockage.

Who cares anyway?