This is the revised edition!

If you missed the old version…

You weren't missing anything too good!

Was everything this unfair?

Yes, no?

He could say, "No, yeah."

But does that make it sincerely true?

For one, he was adopted. Who knew if his real parent were alive or dead. Were they on the street or in a million-dollar estate with 14 or more bedrooms? Was his dad or mom addicted to anything? Were they addicted to something severe or simply Aspirin? When did they decide to leave him behind? Before he was born, or after? But why did they leave him behind? Who were they, really?

The fair-haired artist blinked himself out of his aimless gaze that he held through the tall mirror. He promised himself that he would give up on his usual questions. There wasn't any point; those people were a lost cause. He had parents: two people that took care of him from the age of two. And now he was 18 and going off to a small private art school that was near the mountains.

He was doing this alone.

He was, now and forever, a man.

He didn't have to abide by his adoptive parents' rules anymore. No more listening to them whine about his attitude or defiance. And no more of them complaining about how he's never had a steady girlfriend. His mom was just ranting on and on the other day about how he finally had a good girlfriend that he's been dating longer than usual and now he had broken up with her. He doesn't care what she says, though; he doesn't have to listen to her anymore.

Now would've been the perfect time to try and send him to that asylum.

Of course he'd object to it nowadays, but who sincerely defies their parent at 11?

His grayish blue eyes scanned his half-naked body up and down. He had a nice peachy hue—definitely didn't look like a phantom. His muscles were tone enough; in any case, they fit his slender frame. The hair was, what he considered, the right blonde. It was neither too light nor too yellow, and it wasn't anywhere near brown or black. He and his adoptive father surprisingly had the same shade.

But even after the recall of having perfect hair and a nice color with a firm physique, he still frowned.

It was life's unfairness's fault.

And right now, a part of one of life's undeserved gift—given to him especially—was sitting on his bed.

It was a little boy.

The child sat patiently on the end of the full-sized bed. His short legs kicked back and forth with his head playfully swaying side to side, making his short black hair move in the same rhythm. He gripped the side of the bed absently.

And no, the blonde didn't have any children.

Oh, life gave him something much worst.

Hallucinations.

He grinned sneeringly at the thought.

Maybe, compared to brats, hallucinations weren't that bad.

Shorter and simpler.

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