An escape from his reality, an exit to the evil nature of the human being, that's what Spencer needed, and that's what he found when he started to write poetry. What he had seen, what he had experienced, the amount of trauma for such a short life, and he knew it wasn't over, it never is.

Always being a "genius" as they called him was starting to bother him, the unreachable expectations everyone had for him started to asphyxiate him. There was nothing new for him in the horizon, and it was taking him to the edge. He dragged himself out of bed every morning, everyone around him began to notice his gloomy state, murmurs of concern followed him everywhere he went.

A few days later Penelope sat with him, held his hand, and gifted him a journal. "write what you feel" she said with worried but caring eyes. Spencer took that to heart, and what started as loose words here and there and unfinished sentences, transformed into a new facet for him.

He perceived himself as a reader, not a writer, and when he found himself comfortable with poetry, he felt fire inside his chest. He started to go to public readings, to open mic nights at different bars, but he never had the courage to stand in front of people and read a piece of his soul. At least not until last night. He went alone again, he ordered the same drink, a glass of red wine and sat at the back, with his journal burning in his hand. Maybe it was the Malbec in his glass, but it was finally the night. He waited until every one of the writers read their pieces and when it was time he jumped in.

"Hi. uhm, my name is Spencer, and I've never done this before but I'd like to read some of my poetry." He said with a hesitant voice. Everyone looked at him and he doubt for a second, but pushed it down.

Him who broke me, can't escape the voices. Piece of heaven, and no more choices. Another dosis, my death is closer.

He read and couldn't believe he did it, he closed his journal and stepped down. He walked back to his table, and when he sat he saw you walking to him.