After two years of running from the utopian force field that was my life, I finally came back to wrestle its iron fists with a wiser outlook. I returned to embark on my last year of college in none other than Wixton Academy.

Surveying the office, pieces of clutter and crumpled papers full of red marks were scattered all over the floor. He still had the same unkempt office table as I'd last seen it. However, what remained constant and promising to me was the picture of his six-year-old little girl receiving an award on stage. She had medals tied on her neck with a big, bright smile drawn on her face; camera flashes shimmered in her eyes.

To his left were file cabinets filled with folders and textbooks chronologically-arranged from batches that had graduated years ago, and to the right was a long, side table, placed on top were two printers and one very old typewriter covered with a green polka-dot blanket.

"Crooked and misaligned," those were the very words Professor Brawston used to describe the prose I sneakingly inserted between the huge, bulky envelopes sitting on the left corner of his desk.

He was the kind of professor who motivated you to do better, by obliterating any growing confidence you took years to build inside of you; a destructor of dreams, a villain in your own fairytale, and definitely, not for the faint of heart.

Upon hearing one of Professor Brawston's many degrading commentaries, I restrained every muscle in my body to not talk back.

This is my last shot. There's no need to squander even a second of it. I looked at him straight in the eyes and put on the most pretentious facade I could ever pull.

I stood there awkwardly, in the middle of his office, with only the flickering fluorescent lights to break the silence. He gave me quite a stern look as if he were punishing the sins inside my dark, bittersweet soul. He exhaled deeply and shook his head to and fro, with utter disappointment.

He adjusted his old, rusty spectacles toward the tip of his nose, and said, "I am still looking forward to the day when you do not make a fool of yourself. I have given you countless chances since the very moment you stepped foot on this campus."

If there were such a sport as getting beaten by words from the most terrifying professor on the face of the earth, trust me, I would be the bullseye. Pretending to be in shock from hearing, yet again, such a wonderfully-laid down insult, I put on a straight face while nodding my head, implying to have understood every word. Then, I walked myself out the door.

Apparently, I have a knack for constantly losing all kinds of hope from people who unfortunately still believe in me.

With a great desire to go home and rest, I took a cab and gazed outside through the car window, convincing myself everything's turning out exactly the way I wanted it to be.

Having arrived home, I went inside my room and threw myself in bed. Grunting, I grabbed my journal from the dresser.

"Dated July 21: I went straight home after an exhausting day at school. Had another Brawston awakening," I scribbled in my journal whilst opening another box of my favorite cookies.

I undressed and hopped into more comfortable clothes. Having thrown my worn-out, slim-fit jeans into the laundry basket, I found a pitch-black biker leather jacket that obviously came from the sweatshop hung nearby the closet.

I had also noticed a familiar scent of too much cheap cologne coming from the kitchen. From the moment I recognized the strong hint of self-obsession lingering in the air, I knew exactly the kind of person who would show up unannounced and would usually overstay his welcome.

"I've convinced myself that I used the most effective bug killer for extinguishing rouge pests like this person in front of me, eating the very last piece of my blueberry pie. I guess I stand corrected," I spoke with conviction. My arms were crossed and one foot was thumping repeatedly.

"The rude welcome is nothing but unnecessary, my love. Your fridge was as empty as your soul anyway," Nathan said, shutting the refrigerator calmly, "and the pie you're bragging about looks more like last week's leftovers. You can take a hint at the maggots munching away thinking they're on cloud nine."

"Ah, sarcasm and poor comedy have always been your strong suit. Now tell me what you want, Nate. The sooner I attend to your childish demands, the sooner you scram," I said, quickly disposing of the maggot-infested pie.

I hated the fact that he knew how to get to me. He had this power where he could see through my weaknesses and freely mortify me for the pleasure. There was no doubt that I was gravely ashamed when Nathan, above all, have seen my favorite blueberry pie covered with four-months-old rotten and moldy meat that I hadn't thrown out yet, until today.

As I was busy putting the dishes to the sink, Nathan walked across the kitchen as quietly as he could and then galloped his way into my room. He dove right to my bed and began humping against my pillow mimicking moaning sounds and orgasms whilst incessantly laughing at the stupidity overflowing his despicable mind.

"I remembered quite well deflowering you right on this very bed, Avery Carter. You were always begging me to slap your ass harder. Well, how could I have refused."

"Ugh, spare me the details, Nate. Just so you know, that was the worst day of my life! Even more that you took advantage of my previously naive self!" I grabbed his legs and wrestled him to the floor, pulling him away from my bed. Just when I felt victorious for tackling his broad shoulders to the ground, he pulled my journal from under my bed and started reading aloud,

I love exaggeration, and seemingly, so do a lot of people. Humans, as we are, simply admire the thought to be always in the superlative state of mind. I guess it's a way of eluding the crushing truth of not being enough. It makes us feel as if we were living our lives. But the truth is, we are on an entirely different dimension, one that our mind can so powerfully create into whatever deems convenient, to give an illusion of feeling and embracing, yet so far away.

Lying on the floor, he mocked me after every sentence he found jaw-breaking. "Wow, quite a thought you have there, Caster," he said, flipping the pages. "Now that your valiant confidante is here, and I mean no other than me, take a seat and spill."