"Hahaha"
The joyful laughter of a middle-aged man echoes throughout a small, rundown living room.
The broken furniture, dirty curtains, and cracked wooden walls shimmer in a faint grey hue from the television screen.
"Hahaha"
Talking another large chug of vodka, Brian lets out a hearty laugh at the comical display.
"Chhhhhhhhh… Chhhh…Chhhhhh"
The constant white noise from the TV, mirrored by the boisterous laughter, would make one feel like the television is displaying more than just static.
Only the pouring rain, with its gentle taps on the windows, can match the ambient mood.
Black and white dots of countless magnitudes flicker intermittently.
With another jovial laugh. Brian raises the bottle to his lips for another swig, only to find it empty.
His smile fades as he lowers his hand and stares at the empty bottle, face turning into a scowl of disgust. With a wrathful roar, Brian lunges the bottle at the television, shattering both the screen and the bottle.
With a reddened face, he gets up and paces around the room. Murmurs, whispers, and occasional howls escape from his lips.
With a final kick at a glass shard, Brian storms into the hallway and kicks a door open.
"YOU DISGUSTING BASTARD, THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!"
What followed was the sound of pummeling, screaming, and angry shouts.
Six minutes later, Brian leaves the room, face still fuming in anger. He grabs his coat from the rack and charges out into the pouring rain.
---
"That was the last time I saw my father," lying on a couch in a neatly organized office, Isaac continued his story with an indifferent smile.
"My father loved my mother deeply, and when she died giving birth to me... I guess it makes me her murderer in his eyes."
A amused chuckle escapes Isaac's lips.
"Oh... your story is quite amusing," Mrs. Frost, an acting psychologist, exclaims. "Mind telling me what happens next?"
Isaac stared at her in silence for a moment before continuing, "You promise no word of this will leave this room."
"Oh please..." Mrs. Frost lets out a disdainful snort, "...no matter what you did, could it be worse than me gutting my husband and selling the organs of my children for a new purse?" She picks up a Louis Vuitton bag from the nearby table and flashes it in mock display.
"Fair enough..." letting out a nod in understanding, Isaac leaned deeper into the couch and continued "...I was eleven years old at the time... an age where kids should be happy, smile, and live carefree, but with my father was gone to god knows where, I needed to find a way to feed myself.
The village I lived in was called Ashville," a smile made its way onto Isaac's face when he mentioned the name. "Quiet little place, so quiet that the sound of my father beating the living shit out of me should be easily heard from any random corner, and yet not a single soul came to check out what was going on." The smile widens even further. "That should have been my first sign.
"But little old stupid me thought the better of people...