Return With Skills

**Please be aware that the following text could contain references to suicide and the use of strong language. If you find this content disturbing, it's okay to skip it.**

The mooring is particularly dreary today, with the heavens crying out a relentless downpour that soaks everything to the core. The cobblestone streets are slick with rainwater, and the air is thick with the scent of wet earth and the chill of late autumn. Despite the cold, a peculiar warmth radiates from the heart of the bustling marketplace, where the vibrant chatter of merchants and townsfolk provides a stark contrast to the somber weather. 

"Hello there," I begin writing in random chat in internet..

"My name is Jain Sen. I'm from Delhi, India, and I'm 28 years old."

"Each morning, I start my day with a yawn and a stretch, the same as everyone else, I suppose. But unlike most, I spend my days working in an office, my eyes glued to the screen, my fingers dancing over the keyboard." ~~ TT Sigh...

"It's a life of solitude and routine, one that pays the bills but doesn't offer much in terms of excitement or companionship."

"I'm not exactly what you'd call handsome or talented, and that's made it difficult for me to find someone to share my life with."

"I've always been a bit of an introvert, so I've never had the luxury of a large social circle. And, if I'm being honest, I've never been with anyone romantically. I've never even had my first kiss. So, what should I wish for? What can change my life for the better?"

As the words of your introduction begin to circulate in the random chat, the atmosphere takes a sudden, jarring turn for the worse. The jests and light-hearted banter you had initially encountered morph into a barrage of cruel jibes and vicious taunts. The anonymity of the digital realm emboldens some users to unleash their darker sides.

"Oh, another sad sack from Delhi," one user writes with a malicious smirk, their message laden with sarcasm.

"Why don't you do us all a favor and jump into the river Jain?" another suggests, the words leaving a trail of digital malice in their wake.

The barrage of spiteful comments continues, each one more venomous than the last. The virtual room seems to pulse with a malevolent energy, and you can almost feel the weight of their collective scorn pressing down on my shoulders.

Ignoring the spiteful comments, I stand up from my chair, feeling the cold seep through the fabric of my shirt and jeans. I decide to make myself some coffee to warm up, my eyes avoiding the glaring screens. "My world ended that day when my family died in a train accident," I murmur to myself, my hand trembling slightly as I scoop the coffee grounds into the filter. "I've been alone ever since."

The aroma of the brewing coffee fills the small kitchen, momentarily overpowering the dampness of the room. As I wait for the machine to finish, I lean against the counter, lost in thought. The warmth from the steaming mug is a comforting presence as I take my first sip, the bitter taste a stark reminder of the harshness of reality.

"I didn't come here to burden anyone with my troubles," I type into the chat, my voice filled with a quiet resolve. "I just needed to share my story. Maybe someone can relate?"

Pausing for a moment, I stare into the depths of the coffee, the dark liquid swirling with the cream like the chaotic maelstrom of my thoughts. "I thought maybe, just maybe, I could find a spark of kindness in this vast digital wilderness."

The digital onslaught of spite and ridicule reaches a crescendo, with one particularly vile user joking about my parents' tragic passing. The screen blurs before my eyes as anger and sadness intertwine into a noose around my heart. With trembling hands, I slam my laptop shut, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment like a gunshot in the night.

I find myself staring into the murky depths of my coffee, the only source of warmth in this cold, unforgiving world. The chuckles and snide remarks of the internet trolls feel like a physical assault, each one a dagger slicing through my soul. But I refuse to let them win. I stand tall, taking a deep breath to compose myself, and lift the steaming mug to my lips.

"Here's to the ones who understand," I murmur, the words a silent toast to the unseen allies who might be lurking in the shadows of the digital realm. "And to those who don't," I add, the corner of my mouth twitching into a grim smile, "may your Wi-Fi always be slow."

The rain outside seems to be letting up, but the emotional tempest inside me shows no signs of abating. With a heavy sigh, I decide to step out into the fresh air, leaving the cacophony of the chat behind for the time being. The cobblestone streets of my imagination call to me, beckoning me to lose myself in the anonymity of the city's embrace.

"Hello?" I answer, the sound of the phone's ringtone piercing through the cocoon of solitude I had wrapped around myself.

"When you coming?" A gruff, impatient voice demands, the words slurred with what sounds like a mix of excitement and desperation.

"When?" I ask, my mind racing to catch up with the unexpected call. "Isn't today Sunday?"

The line crackles with static, and for a moment, I think the call has dropped. But then, the voice comes through clearer, though no less insistent. "Today, Jain! We're expecting you!"

My heart skips a beat, a knot of dread coiling in my stomach. It's my boss from the office, Mr. Raugh. He must have gotten my days mixed up. I never take work calls on weekends, especially not after what happened today.

"I... I can't," I manage to choke out, the words sticking in my throat like a mouthful of ash. "I'm not feeling well."

The silence on the other end is deafening, and for a moment, I fear he can hear the lie in the tremor of my voice.

"But boss," I protest, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. "I need some time to... to recover."

"You have to," Mr. Raugh says, his tone unyielding. "It's month ending."

"But I didn't take last Sunday too," I remind him, feeling the weight of my loneliness pressing down on me like the rain outside.

"Then take it next Sunday off," he says without missing a beat, his laughter cruel and dismissive. "But you're coming in today."

The call ends abruptly, leaving me staring at the phone in disbelief. It's as if he didn't hear my silent scream of despair. As if he didn't care about the pain I carry every day, the invisible burden that grows heavier with every heartless remark.

I clutch the phone tightly, willing it to shatter in my hand. But it's just a cold, indifferent device, a conduit for the world's cruelty. With a snarl of frustration, I shove it into my pocket and march out the door, ready to face whatever the day throws at me. After all, what's one more storm in the life of a man who's lost his way?

Pulling my jacket tighter around myself, I step out into the misty dawn. The chilly air is a slap in the face, a stark reminder that no matter how much I wish otherwise, I can't stay in the warmth of my apartment forever. "I guess I'll just have to tough it out," I murmur, the words lost in the whisper of the rain.

The cobblestone path leading to the bus stop is treacherous, slick with the remnants of the storm. Each step is a battle against the urge to turn back, to crawl into bed and forget the world outside. But something propels me forward, a stubborn refusal to let the darkness win.

As I pass by the river, its banks swollen and threatening, I can't help but think of the cruel words from the chat. "Should I?" I whisper to myself, the question a dark echo of the voice that whispers despair in the quiet moments of the night.

"No," I reply firmly, the sound of my voice a declaration to the silent world around me. "I have a soul, and I'm going to keep fighting."

With a heavy sigh, I board the bus, the warmth of the interior a stark contrast to the coldness of the world outside. "Nothing left anyway," I murmur to myself, the words a grim mantra as I take my seat.

But even as the bus pulls away from the curb, I can't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there's something out there waiting for me. Something that can fill the gaping hole in my soul.

I arrive at the office, my hair still damp from the rain. "You're late," Mr. Raugh says without looking up from his paperwork, the disapproval in his voice palpable. "I know," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

He grunts, acknowledging my apology without granting me the courtesy of eye contact. I take my seat, feeling the ghosts of the internet's malice still clinging to me like a damp shroud.

The office is eerily quiet, just the hum of the computers and the occasional clack of keyboards. The only other person here is the computer operator, a young girl named Priya, whose eyes flicker towards me with curiosity before returning to her screen.

As the hours drag on, I throw myself into my work, the numbers and spreadsheets a welcome distraction from the ache in my chest. Mr. Raugh and Priya chuckle in the background, their conversation a constant reminder of the social warmth I'm denied.

I grit my teeth and force my gaze downward, focusing on the task at hand. I may not have friendship or love, but I have my job. And right now, that has to be enough. "I'll show them," I think to myself, the words a silent declaration of defiance. "I'll prove I'm worth more than their pity or scorn."

But even as I type away, I can't help but feel a twinge of envy. Why is it so easy for them? Why can't I find that spark of connection that seems to come so naturally to others?

With each passing minute, the anger and jealousy build, a pressure cooker ready to blow. Yet, I keep it all contained, channeling it into my work. "One day," I murmur under my breath. "One day, I'll find my place in this world."

I don't know why tears come to my eyes as I lay in bed, the darkness of the room a reflection of my mood. Is it because of the cruel words from the chat today, or is it the fever that has me feeling so weak and vulnerable?

I pull the blankets closer, trying to escape the chill that seems to have seeped into my very bones. "It's okay," I murmur, the sound of my own voice a comfort in the silence. "You're strong, Jain. You can get through this."

But even as sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, the tears still come, slipping down my cheeks unbidden. The warmth of them is almost a comfort, a silent acknowledgment of the pain I carry.

And so, in the quiet embrace of the night, I let myself cry, the tears a testament to my humanity. They fall like rain on the pillow, each drop a tiny release from the storm inside me. And when the tears finally dry, I drift off into a fitful sleep, my dreams haunted by the faces of those who never knew the man behind the screen.

The sudden sound of something shifting in the darkness jolts me awake, my heart hammering in my chest like a wild beast desperate to escape its cage. The room is bathed in a soft, ethereal light, and as my vision clears, I realize it's not just a figment of my feverish imagination.

A woman, dressed in a flowing garment that seems to shimmer and change colors with each breath, hovers before me. Her eyes are like pools of midnight stars, and her smile is warm, yet filled with a mysterious allure that sends shivers down my spine.

"Who... who are you?" I croak, my voice a mere whisper of the man I once was.

"I am Cuyle," she says, her voice like a melody that resonates deep within my soul. "A genie, here to take your soul."