The ink spilled from the broken pen, collecting and pooling into a dark puddle on the tattered and worn desk, staining it a shade of black. Jason sighed; in his frustration, he had crushed the pen he had hoped to use to write a letter to his parents.

After another disappointing year living alone, his birthday had gone without much of interest happening. His parents mailed him a letter from their estate, inviting him to come back to live with them, and requesting him to write back. Of course, with them, it was more of a demand than a request, but he knew better than to deny them either way.

He stood up, setting the pen in the waste bin, making a mental note to steal another pen from the school where he worked. He was lucky, in a way. He got paid a good wage, but a job as a janitor is rough, especially with all of the teenagers running about, mocking him at every chance they got.

How long had it been since he too was that young? Perhaps not very long at all, but the stresses of adult life made it feel like an eternity. Perhaps his worries were not far from those he faced today, as many of them focused around his mother.

He mused for a second on what the other children must have thought of him. Perhaps they thought he was odd, sitting in the corner, silently observing them. Always an analyst, his father said. Jason had always idolised his father, who was a world renowned mathematician, always going away for book signings and to talk at prestigious universities.

His mother, on the other hand, was far from what you may call a role model. A shrewd, tactless woman, she said what was on her mind, with little regard for others’ feelings. It was a miracle the two were still together, after all of their differences. Jason often wondered if it was for his father's money, but whatever reason, he did feel bad for his father.

Jason was quite keen to move out at the first opportunity to do so, although without much regard for what he would do. He was always called smart, his parents offering to send him to any University he wanted to attend. For a long time, Jason thought that was what he wanted. A education enviable by princes, to come before a career of legendary status. As a child, he often mused what he would do for a career. Perhaps he would be an author, on par with the legendary J.R.R. Tolkien. Perhaps he would pursue the sciences, such as astronomy, and work to land the first man on the moon.

However, neither science nor writing fulfilled his parents’ dreams for him. They felt he was meant for a grander ambition. Even grander than simple science, or words, they felt necessary that he would rise above the common rabble. His mother often fancied him as a politician, as she would often point out in her yearly letter that he would simply be perfect for such a task as to change the world. His father, though often too busy for such qualms, was far more encouraging, although his disappointment in Jason’s life so far was all too apparent.

Jason sighed, a long, tired sigh. He knew regardless of his successes that his parents would only be proud of him should he return to them and attend University, before letting them choose what career path he should take.

He walked back to the desk, noticing how tattered it looked. He had purchased it from a high school friend of his when they moved away to California, but Jason couldn't help but think of him every time he sat there. Henry was his name, a delightful man, his laughter could make a room ten times brighter, and Jason was very proud to call him a friend. He moved to California to bring his smile to the silver screen of the burgeoning movie industry, an endeavor that appeared to lead to great success, as Henry would often write back to Jason about his starring roles in films.

Jason made a resolution to clean the desk before the night was done. He tidied the papers, thankful that the desk had absorbed the ink before it ruined his limited paper supply, and stacked them on the left side of the desk, in as neat of a pile as he could manage under the candlelight.

Reaching for a rag, he dusted off the piles of books that laid scattered around the desk. Jason had seen his neighbor moving into a house nearer to the city, and he offered them to Jason. He was always nice to Jason ever since he moved in, offering him a half tin of biscuits and helping move his limited boxes into the house. It was a gesture that Jason greatly appreciated, and he wished he had asked for the man’s address so he could write him once he had read the books.

Picking up the dwindling candle, he pushed in the chair and walked across the dirty and rickety floor into his bedroom. The tattered bedsheets and torn mattress were never comforting to him, but he was tired enough that to him, it looked like the most comfortable place in the world. Unfortunately, he could not rest quite yet.

He quickly got dressed and shaved for the first time in several weeks. Not able to afford proper shaving cream, he had to make do with water, a task that left him with enough cuts on his face that he had often been asked if he owned a cat. The answer was always no; while he was very fond of cats, an extra mouth to feed, no matter how small, was not something he could bring unto himself, no matter how much he wished he could.

The wooden clock by his dresser ticking away, he set the candle next to it before blowing it out for the night. The clock read nine thirty at night, giving him half an hour to make it to his night job. In his time working late at night, he had adjusted to the darkness, as the luxury of candlelight was often a rarity for him. He was able to find his way back into the front room by instinct alone, although he owned so little that he did not have to worry about tripping over a misplaced object.

The streetlight that shone through the one window behind his desk helped illuminate his way as he wheeled his bicycle through the front door of his house, although calling it a house may be a mistake. It was in the furthest corner of New York City, in an isolated neighborhood. His parents warned him against it, but it was the best he could afford. In truth, he was lucky. The house was quite mistreated, lending a very low price tag to it. Jason resolved to give the house the proper care it deserved as soon as he moved in.

The streetlights lit his way as he pedaled to the shop where he worked the night shift. He was very wary of the cars on the main road, so he often pedaled on the sidewalk instead, as pedestrians were few and far between this late at night. Besides, with all the racket his squeaky, unoiled bike made, virtually any pedestrian could hear it coming.

The simple act of pedaling his bike gave him such simple joy. Once a tedious act, a means to an end of transportation had swiftly turned into his most beloved moments of the evening. Such a rhythmic task lends itself to allowing for free thought, as he biked in the crisp night air, savoring each breath. He often forgot just how stiff the air in his house really was, and the fresh air invigorated him more than he thought possible, as if to encourage him to do his best at his job.

The trees outside the shop were the main landmark that would indicate for him to snap out of his thoughts and return to reality. The store’s glass windows were frequently vandalized by no good teens looking for a quick laugh, and Jason was disheartened to see more graffiti having appeared when he arrived. This time, the word “Geralt” was on the window in bright red spray paint, as if some sort of advertisement for a business.

He walked into the narrow dip between the dirty windows to unlock the door, with his bike resting against the wall. Walking inside, he saw that everything was as it should be. The several rows of snacks and food, and the refrigerators full of pop and alcohol were all in the proper order. He wheeled the bike into the back of the store next to the faculty restroom, before shutting the door to it, in case any troublemaker decided to sneak in and vandalise it.

His position behind the counter was a standard routine for him, and a much appreciated opportunity to think. Perhaps surprisingly, the store saw more customers than you might expect at such an hour, drawing in quite a few night owls, hungry for snacks and drinks. Jason was thankful for them, regardless of their reasoning, as it warranted the store owner paying a employee to cover the store at night. In spite of his janitorial work, it hardly covered his basic expenses, and as such, he took on a night job as well, electing to sleep in spurts between jobs, doing what self care he needed in between.

It wasn't long before someone came in. Jason estimated the man to be a good thirty years old and about six feet tall, with a several inch long beard that was laid over his zipped up tatty grey coat, as though on display for the world to see. Unsurprisingly, Jason saw the man stumble over to the refrigerated section, nearly snagging his dirty jeans on the racks, before reaching for a six pack of beer.

He walked over to the register, and as he came closer, Jason could see the tiredness in the man's eyes, and could smell the rancid beer on his breath; one part of the job Jason did not care for.

“One six pack please,” the man said, in a slurred tone. Jason stifled a smile, as he sounded almost like he thought the pirates from Treasure Island might, were they real.

“Certainly. That will be one dollar,” Jason said, in his most profession tone. Customer service was never his strong suit, although simple requests from customers were easy to fulfil.

“A dollar? I don't have a bloody dollar lad, what happened to beer costing 5 cents a bottle?” The man exclaimed, outraged by this development, his Irish accent discernible  through the slurred speech.

“I’m sorry sir, but that's what I’m mandated to charge you,” Jason said. The man stood for a few seconds, as if perplexed by what Jason was saying.

“Well, can't you lower it a little? Tell ye what lad, I can walk out with these bottles, and no one needs to know. It’ll be our little secret, ye?” The man said, as though his offer was a great deal for Jason, and as though he was the first to suggest something like this. Jason didn't enjoy letting people down; however, but he couldn't simply give away six bottles of beer. The store owner would be furious, should he find out.

“How much money do you have?” Jason asked. He was hoping the man would have at least some money, so he could at least have something for the beer. Jason reckoned a dollar was too much, anyway.

“Let’s see, there's, ehh, some pennies, a couple of nickels, a dime, and a quarter,” The man said, setting them on the counter, along with a pile of pocket lint. It totaled to about 63 cents, more than Jason was expecting.

“How about I give you a deal; you give me the coins, and I let you keep the six pack, and no one needs to know, yeah?” Jason said, willing to be rid of the man’s stinking breath sooner rather than later. The man stood, processing, until he came upon a coherent thought.

“Aye lad, that’ll do,” the man said, stumbling out of the store, beer bottles in hand, setting for an unknown destination to drink the night away. Jason put the coins in the cash register, before brushing off the pocket lint and waiting for the next customer. This was going to be a very long night.