Hurling the box released some of his anger. It felt good so he swept his arm across the top of his dresser, knocking his pitiful possessions onto the floor, the ridiculous little carved animals, pathetic toiletries and useless old catalog he could never afford to order
from. These paltry items were the sum of his entire dismal life.
He kicked the frame of his bed, hurting his foot and knocking the light cot away
from the wall. Heedless of Rasmussen hearing the noise, he cried out his rage and frustration, tore the covers off the bed, picked up the pillow and punched it. He hurled it across the room. Dragging the thin mattress from the metal mesh of the cot, he tossed it
on the floor and looked around, but there was nothing else to tear apart since he owned so little. Laughing at the irony, he sank onto the mattress on the floor, his legs drawn to his
chest, forehead bowed to his knees, and his hands cradling the back of his neck.
Caught between harsh laughter and sobs, he breathed in hitching bursts.
He had no future, definitely no girl, and soon, no home. What the hell was he going to do?
