In the early hours of the morning, Louis was sleeping restlessly. The sheets were tied in knots around his feet, the covers thrown to the side and spilling over to the floor. At 4am his eyes opened, and he turned to the LED clock on the nightstand. Putting feet into slippers and pulling on his robe to warm against the chill, Louis sat down at the desk. Quietly, he pulled the chain to a desktop lamp – turning on the main light in his bedroom might alert his parents to the fact he was up.

Louis hated his life, and said so out loud.

He reviewed his calculus and biology homework lessons from the previous night and found mistakes. He couldn’t believe he was so stupid. Finally, he resumed where he had left off on the Celtic lore assignment which had sent him to sleep the night before. The class annoyed him; it was a silly elective and it should have been an easy grade. Louis sorted through his copious notes and found the inspiration necessary to begin an essay. It flowed over onto a second, third, and fourth page; Louis only paused to silence his alarm clock. He was surprised to find he had been writing non-stop for almost an hour.

By 6am Louis was stiff from sitting still at the desk for so long. He went to his bathroom and opened the window a crack to keep the room from steaming up. He ran water for the shower and disrobed while he waited for it to warm. His face, framed by unkempt hair, stared impassively into the mirror. His complexion was pale, like his Scottish mother, but his features were unmistakably Asian, like his dad. His dark, angular eyes and high cheekbones gave him a stern expression. His mouth seemed to naturally pout in permanent distaste.

“Fuck you, Louis Song.”

Once steam began to creep across the mirror, he was in and out of the shower in minutes, and Louis spent more time fastidiously drying the bathroom than himself. He did this because of the fits his mum threw about cleaning up after himself. It was enough to have made him borderline neurotic.

Louis reached the bottom of the stairs just as his dad was leaving.

“Have a great day, son,” said Eamon Song.

“You too, Dad.” Louis smiled before he could help himself.

He had just started on a bowl of cereal when his mum came into the kitchen.

“Hi, honey.” Nora Song patted Louis’ head and tossed her car keys onto the countertop.

Louis didn’t respond, except to subtly cringe. He remained stone-faced as she took out bread and cold meat to fix his sandwich, impatiently telling her, “Too much,” when she overstuffed it. She didn’t take much out before she sealed the sandwich in a bag. Louis ceased further communication.

“Big day today?”

Louis shrugged. He put his dishes into the sink, and they filed out to the garage.