You look downwards at your beautiful artwork: all torn and wrecked. You barely suppress a sob.
You had given this to your father while he was in a fit of rage to calm him down, but he ripped it apart and threw the shreds at you.
A teardrop falls slowly onto your hand. You brush it away with the other hand then sigh and stand up. And yet life goes on.
Tomorrow it's school again. You need to hand in an assignment. You quickly sit down on your hard wooden study chair and look at your homework in front of you as to distract you from your once beautiful artwork.
You had good grades, good everything, but your parents never let you go anywhere, or let anyone come to your house. You had to do extra things that no-one else had to, and then just to top it all off, there was that stupid war going on, with bombings and the rest of them. You usually had to move because of that, and so you never really bothered to make any friends. After all, friends didn't matter. It was study that counted, and good grades, so when you grow up you could get a good job and send money to your parents. And they would be rid of you.
Another stupid tear. You brush it away quickly. If it keeps going on your homework will get soggy. You allow yourself a mirthless laugh. Soggy homework versus bad life and need to let it all out. The latter wins, and you let the tears flow.