His eyes looked swollen as it rested on the palms of his hands. His face had a lost look. His cheeks were still damp from the crying earlier. His throat was sore from the screaming he did last night. His pillow was still wet from his tears, mucus and saliva. The whites of his eyeballs were now red.
Life went on as usual. The sky looked bright and blue, just like any other days. The morning sun shone just enough to dry the clothes that hung on their racks after washing. There were a few clouds in the sky, one that looked similar to the face of a lion, the other of a deer. A flock of swallows circled the air, looking for trees to rest on. On a tree nearby, a crow perched on the branch, cawing away. Every now and then, a car would crawl past the neighbourhood. The breeze was perfect for a game of Frisbee or basketball. Not too strong to change the course of the game, but just right to cool down the players. It was a peaceful day, where housewives would take time out from housework to gossip in their neighbours' garden pergola as they sip on their earl grey tea in the most delicate manner.
It was one of those days that he would call a bunch of his friends out to the park or beach and mess around, doing everything any other teenager would do. A soda in one hand, a hotdog in the other, walking around the beach or park, enjoying the weather while daring each other to do nonsensical stuff, like saying a random line to strangers, or doing a handstand outside public toilets. It was just one of those days. Instead, he sat on the bench in his house porch, silently moaning about how unjust life has treated him.
He looked up at the sky and wanted to scream his lungs out, even though his voice had already gone coarse from the screaming into his pillow yesterday. He cried and wailed the whole night, but no one heard him. His pillow muffled the sound, loud enough only to the residents of the house he was in. But his brother was out on a date, as usual. His dad was too busy with work, and his mom was on a business trip out of state. It was just him, and his near-deaf grandpa in the house. No one heard his sorrow. He opened his mouth to scream, but something else caught his attention.
He saw a spider making its web at the corner of the awning. He looked on with his mouth still slightly open. He knew not what was so fascinating, but something just was. The spider spun her web with much agility and skill, bit by bit overlapping the outline of the web as it worked its way to setting a trap for the next unfortunate victim. Well, food from its point of view.
The wind blew, and the web was broken. The poor spider hung by the end of its thread, nothing else supporting it as it dangled in mid-air. It slowly made its way back up to the web and started all over again. The web was almost completed as the wind blew again. Again, the supporting lines gave way and the spider had to start all over again. Again and again this happened. For eight times, the poor spider had to start all over again. Then as it crawled across the outline of the ninth web, it wind blew and the spider fell from the ceiling as the web broke. Underneath, there was a bucket of water, and the spider fell into it. He got up from his seat and looked into the water. He started crying again.
Inside the bucket of water, he didn't just see a drowned spider. He saw himself. Not just a reflection, but the sad state he was in. He could relate to the spider.
He worked so hard in building the circle of friends he had. He thought he finally had a solid web of trust, but that joy ended in an instant as one of his friends told him that the rest never really treated him as a friend and that everything that he went through was all on the note of pretence. He moved on, and went on to find more and more friends. But time and time again, his trust was broken. People backstabbed him, they couldn't keep his secrets, they cheated on him, and they had used him. He had given up. Never would he trust anyone again.