Maybe ... It Won't Be So Bad.

One sheep. Two sheep. Three shee— yeah this ain't gonna work. He can't sleep. The night's too silent and the light's too loud. Even though his curtains are closed, and the neighbours have been blasting music since 5pm. They are way too loud and energetic for him.

Grabbing a pillow, he covered his head in a poor attempt to block out the noise. Or the lack of it. Or both. Yeah, didn't work. Why did he think it would? He threw off the cover and slipped on his grey bunny slippers—a gag gift from Adam. The bastard thought it would be funny if he gave him something that was his 'least favourite colour'—jokes on him. A week later, his entire apartment was monochrome.

...

Adam didn't need to know he kept the gift.

He walked to the kitchen and picked up his 'I don't know what's sleep' mug from Mia and made himself a cup of earl grey. Don't look at him like that. If he can't fall asleep, he'll just stay awake. At least he ain't drinking coffee. His therapist would be proud of him. Maybe.

He looked up from his mug to see that he was now on the balcony, his elbows resting against the railing as he nursed his tea. When did he get here?

Yelling. Fireworks too. They are obviously very loud if he could hear them without his aids. He tried to see what the commotion was all about. Oh. The countdown. The last ten seconds before New Years.

"10," he murmured along as the crowd yelled.

"Today on the 10th of January, 20XX, we are all here to say goodbye. To two amazing, selfless people. They were parents, siblings and some of the greatest friends one could have. We all pray that your souls may Rest In Peace. And with that let us—"

The rest was drowned out by his brain. It was his fault. His fault they died. His fault that they were six feet underground. His fault that they came to visit a day earlier than they should. If he didn't say anything, they would have been alive. He shouldn't have argued with his ma. He knew she would take any challenge. If he didn't make fun of her 'tortoise speed driving' she wouldn't have tried to show up a day early. He shouldn't have argued with pop's lame attempt at a bento even though he loved them a lot. He will never get to eat those bentos again. The malformed rice balls and the overcooked stir fry.

Oh. Oh god.

He. He told them. He told them HE HATED THEM.

In response to their' love you son,' he said 'hate you too.' HATE. His last words to them were that he hated them.

He fell to his knees and screamed. He screamed. He screamed so loudly that he heard his voice over the wind that rushed past his ears. It wasn't that loud, to be honest.

People moved away from him. To give him space. The rain they predicted last night began to pour down heavily. The skies reflected his sorrow.

At least it wouldn't be too obvious that he cried.

"9!" yelled the crowd as the next second passed.

"We are sorry to inform you that you are severely deaf. The head trauma you experienced from the accident back in December coupled with your exposure to loud noise--" it was a coping mechanism, sue him, "-- your outer and inner cochlear hairs were damaged. The rupture in your left eardrum had not healed like we anticipated and has led to an infection in the middle ear. So from everything I can see you are deaf in your right ear and hard of hearing in your left. You will be able to get by with hearing aids as you can already see by the temporary one I have fitted on you. You must purchase a hearing preferably more than one in case of emergencies. It would also be a good idea to learn sign language. I will also give you the name of a few therapists who specialise in deaf therapy."

The doctor sighed, he pulled off his reading glasses and placed them on the table next to him.

"Kid, this is the ninth time you have been in my office in the last two months. All nine times have yielded bad results. And it seems to me that you have done nothing but spiral into a hole of self-deprecation,"

"And?"

"And kid, believe it or not, I care about you. Please just. Just take care of yourself, will you?"

"Can you just give the list so I can go?"

"Fine, just. Nevermind. Here you go," the doctor handed over a few sheets of paper, all neatly stapled which had lists of names and heading on who was for what. Sighing, he waved goodbye to the doctor, gripping the papers under his arms and walked out the door.

Everything was faint, the world was quieter. So he could only hear from one year now. Huh. That's a weird thought. Now he technically only has one ear. He can't hear.

He can't… hear.

He'll barely be able to listen to music. Will one ear be enough?

Tch, what's gonna go next? His sight. He deserves it tho. He killed his parents. Claimed he hated them.

The doc said he needs a therapist too. He stopped walking at the traffic light. Was he really that broken? Does he really need a shrink to fix him?

He should call them shrinks. After all, they are doing what they trained for. And he knew most of them are good at what they do.

But did he really need one?

He didn't want one. But maybe he should give them a chance.

He looked at the papers under his arm, there were four pages. The first was the contact info of a few hearing aid specialists. He should search if they were any good.

On the third page was a list of names. They were numbered with bullet dots.

9. Dr Yua Millers

He'll give her a chance he supposed. He dialled the contact on the paper and brought the phone to his ear.

He crossed the road, "hello? I'm calling to ask for.."

"8!"

"Stop it! just leave me alone."

He was on his feet crying, a sketchbook lay drenched in front of him. He is just as drenched. Mud water dripped from his hair. His bag was ruined. And probably so was everything else inside it.

"Stupid deaf freak!"

He opened his eyes to look at the voice owner, to see him with a group of other people, all who were laughing at him. He winced slightly at the impact their insults gave him.

"SHUT UP! SHUT up! Shut up shut up shutupshutup…"

When he finally opened his eyes. It was quiet everywhere. Not a soul could be seen. They all left him. He sighed and picked up his sketchbook. The book was one of the few things he would splurge on. The sketchbook was quite basic, it had a hard black cover and standard watercolour paper as sheets. The only thing that stood out was the orange paper eight that was glued on to the front.

He knew that none of his paintings would survive the water—all his hard work gone to waste.

Why did this always happen to him?

Did he do something wrong?

In his past life?

In his present one?

Is it because he killed his parents?

Probably was.

Maybe he really was a freak.

That guy. Yesterday. He said how freaks shouldn't be here. Was he right. Should he leave? Give…...up? Maybe he should

He is a freak, isn't he?

And everyone else is normal.

But. But maybe not today. Today he will fix his book.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he might.

"7"

"I don't understand what you are doing, but your ideas are stupid," the harsh words of his art teacher slapped him across the face. He wanted to start an art business. Didn't want to teach at some college. His friends Adam, Mia and Sam who somehow managed to worm their way into his life had assured him (more like begged him) that opening an online shop for his art and personal commissions was a great idea.

He had hoped his old teacher would advise him. Apparently not.

"You have no talent! And how you pass your examinations with those flying colours, I do not know. Who would buy your paintings? Like, have some sense. Your prices are too high as it is. Your art isn't worth it. Just go, drop the idea. Work at McDonald's or something."

"Yes sir," he mumbled as tears of shame welled up in his eyes.

He knew it was a bad idea. So why did he attempt to follow through? What in living hell was he trying to achieve?

The teacher was right. His art was bad. He knew that. So why did he try?

Why did he bother?

His friends were more talented than he was. They would become successful. Were they pitying him? He doesn't need their pity or their sympathy.

Why was he here, he should go?

What would ma say? She would be disappointed.

He was giving up his dreams, and he had already started.

The website was already made. He had stocked it too.

So he'll continue. Maybe. For his ma.

"6"

He was failing. Miserably. He woke at six in the morning. He was sick the week before and was just recovering. The medicine he had to buy put an enormous dent in his budget.

He decided that he would have to settle for more carbs and fewer fruits and vegetables. He took note of the few commissions he could finish in a day looking around his small studio apartment. Hopefully, that would be enough to perhaps cover half his rent. He would have to ask for an extension to his rent if he didn't want to be thrown out.

He can't tell any of his friends. All of them had become very close, and very protective since the last time he...tried.

He glanced down at his arms, at the scars that were not visible through the long sleeves of his oversized sweater.

He sighed and walked into the bathroom and reached for the medicine cupboard. From there he picked up his bottle of pills before shaking two of them out and swallowing them with water.

His 'business' was failing, no one wanted art from him. He barely had three commissions per six months.

What he made every month wasn't enough to pay rent and buy food. Not to mention just how sickly he would get. That and his doctor appointments cost a ton. He also had to replace his hearing aid often.

This was the price he had to pay for killing his parents, huh? He was a murderer.

What if he crossed the other side. But tomorrow's new year's eve. He would make news if he died tomorrow.

He didn't want that. Maybe he'll sleep it away. No one's waiting for him tomorrow. He was a ghost.

Unwanted. Cold and forgotten.

At '5', he could barely care. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks, glistening in the moonlight. With his now cold cup of earl grey and the moonlight shining on his family, it would have been a stunning picture. This year was bad. To put it lightly. Now he remembered why he didn't want to wake up for new years, but he did anyway.

At 4 there was a knock on his door. He ignored it.

Who would come to visit him for new years?

Okay. Whoever it is, they are very annoying. They are ringing the doorbell now. And they aren't stopping. Okay! Fine! He's going, he's going!

At 3 he was back in his living. Who could it be? The landlady? Or that old lady who always said he was too loud tho he was so quiet normally that a pin could drop and you would know.

It could also be one of his haters, those people who said he valued his art at too high a price if he even wanted to get sales. Maybe they were right. His art wasn't that good. Damn if his therapist or his friends heard that he would be in a metaphorical grave of affection and strict self-love and esteem lectures.

At 2, he reached the door, and by now he had turned off his aid, the doorbell ring was too loud, nuh-uh, ain't gonna stand for it. Doesn't mean he isn't getting blinded by his light buzzer which Adam had oh so kindly installed with disco lights.

At the elusive 1, he had just turned the key, unlocking the door, before a pair of arms wrapped around his arms. He toppled over, back hitting the ground with an inaudible thump. He raised himself off the ground and rested on his elbows. On top of him laid Adam...wait. What is he-

He looked up to see the smiling faces of Mia and Sam looking down at him, laughing in their hands. Behind them stood Riley, his bangs in his face as he shook his head… is that disappointment? One hand sliding over his face and another hidden behind his back.

By the time he had registered what was happening, Adam had gotten off him and was now being held back by Mia who he assumed was scolding him. At least that is what he picked up from her grabbing the brunette by his collar and wiggling a finger at him.

Riley grabbed one of his hands in his and pulled him off the ground, putting a hand to his aid, turning it back on before pulling him into the biggest hug he had ever been given this year.

"Happy new year Neo," he whispered, handing him a plain rather stuffed manila envelope. Neo raised an eyebrow and turned to the clock on his wall to see that yes it was new year's day. Mia, Sam and Adam hugged him as Riley let go. One had cake, and another had a couple bags he hadn't noticed before.

"Well open the envelope idiot."

"Shut up Sam."

Neo opened the envelope. His eyes widened before a familiar burning sensation engulfed him. Despite his efforts, a sob escaped him. He brought a hand to his mouth and sobbed again.

In the envelope sat the receipts of a ton and I mean a ton of orders from his company. He couldn't believe it. His art business had succeeded. People liked his work. Mia showed him her phone, a page on Twitter where a huge number of people were praising one of his previous commissions and tons asking to get his contact to get their own.

"Maybe this year won't be too bad, happy new year guys."