He stayed awake all night staring at his Spiderman poster. Every time he closes his eyes images assault him, invading every nook and cranny of his being. He have tried telling his parents but he ignored him, his night time cries does not even raise even a tiny amount of compassion from them. But that is okay, he is used to it; being alone. He is alone at home among the expensive rugs and vases, and of sculptures and paintings that seem to follow his every move. The servants an endless face of expressionless beings who marched silently in and out of rooms, barely noticeable in the structure of his everyday life. He is alone at his very expensive private school, the other students seems to him immature and crass. They in turn ignore him often consciously avoiding him as if unconsciously they sense something wrong with him. His only company an old cellphone he found exploring the attic one day. It rang every day sometimes frequently sometimes infrequently. Delivering messages for him to follow or else. He has not detected any discernable pattern to its texts. What prompted him to follow its messages, and the thing that fills him with dread is that it rang without batteries, without any source of energy no mortal sense can detect. He shudders, as he clutched the blood red cellphone. It text him earlier this afternoon- wait for my message, don’t sleep or else!