Some stories start with a hero. Other, with a child. Few with both. However, the best stories are, in fact, those which start from scratch.
The monotonous and uncomfortable inconstancy of the clock daily resounded at Eibe's walls. His eyes, slitted, exposed his sleepiness, his lips mumbled the boredom that took him so long ago. His red hair hung at the headboard, the hands, fallen aside the mattress, showed a submission only capable of the hands which served to a sublime apathy. The world loosens against that so unabashedly puerile moment, which the sixteen years old boy handed himself, lethargic, to uncomfortable secular caresses. Damned clock!
The moment, and the nausea, and the boredom, and the silence were all interrupted by the shrill call of the doorbell. Eibe stood up in a jiff. He wasn't waiting for anyone, but what could be better than a surprise for killing depression? Was Noemi...? It should be... Who else? It could be the postman, could be a mistake, could be a hoax!… But it had to be something, because he had seen enough of that saddening sea breeze. He ran down the stairs, full of a few certainties and a lot of promising uncertainties. But it wasn't the postman.
On an abrupt explosion, the door was thrown far, launching shrapnels into the air. The impact hurled Eibe into the opposing wall, that cracked with the concussion of his body. With difficulty, he put himself on his knees, trying to observe through the heavy dust what could have caused the burst.
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