Randy gazed upon the general area, but it was more specific than that. He looked at the city; how a child held his mother's hand as they passed the road; how a group of rats shared crumbs; how his friends chattered happily in the park.

Randy gazed upon the general area — to the unassuming eye, that is. When infact he was looking at happiness. Something he hadn't felt in quite a long time. Was it even possible, at this point?

He took a step forward. And walked. And walked. And ran. He ran, not knowing his destination. He just did. He ended up in some back alley, away from the open world. He stared the ground muddled with moss, trash, and concrete. With a smile.

"H-Ha, look its me."

He visibly frowned after saying his own words, feeling tears starting to prick at his eyes. Similairly, his hand wandered to his bandage. If it peels off, his head will, well, explode. He knows that. So why can't he stop picking at it?

Who is he kidding, he has absolutely NOTHING to lose. College dropout, lives in a dumpster, selling his dignity via ¢25 phone calls. Atleast its considerably less off a hassle and less painful than other methods, right? He picks at his bandage, as if an itch that just can't go away. Slowly, his legs gives out and he sits on the floor, the current tension of the moment making him blind and deaf, numb, to anything happening in the world, to any other thoughts.

He picks at it again and again, with increased intensity. Inevitably, the corner of the bandage starts to peel. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

"Randy?"

His heart stopped for a split-second as he heard his name being called out. You found him here, in an alley. His face fell.