"You've Really Done It This Time," he said.

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"You've really done it this time, huh?" the balding man wondered, clutching the newspaper in his hand. His nails dug into the marred skin, wedding ring still shining as though it was new. His green eyes ran over the words again, and again, and again. Was it real? It had to be. But how could it be real, when just hours ago he was sitting opposite of him in the cafe, telling him all about how he's gonna turn down the offer from the soccer team-- he didn't want to leave home when his mother was hospitalized, and he wouldn't. But it was in the newspaper. What sense did it make? None. No sense. "You went ahead and done it, kid," he stated bitterly to the smiling man in the picture, that was holding a shirt with his new soccer club's symbol. The newspaper said something about the symbol being his pride, the thing he's always wanted, but all the man could see is a liar spouting out nonsense. It was a treason. Leaving home when his mother was hospitalized-- was that the reason he didn't pick up the phone as he called him to inform him of the fact she was gone? He was always the trouble-maker, he's left home so many times, coming back with a new scar and tears in his eyes, apologizing for making them worry. So he really went and done it this time. He won't be back for at least a season, the newspaper said. He had a contract for two seasons and would begin training the next day- today actually. And in the interview he lied again, "of course I'll miss home, but both of my parents gave me their blessing." The balding man turned on his heel, seeping from the burning hot liquid-- ah, right, he forgot to put some sugar in the bitter coffee (not like it even mattered anymore, he had a bitter taste in his mouth for hours now, and he threw up three times by that point)-- "I've been dreaming about this day for years, and I am certain my parents are popping chamagnes right now. I should actually go ahead and tell them before the flight." And thus he left the interviewer, soon later bordering the flight away from the office of the Soccer Club's owner, to the city of the club, to participate in the first real training of the big leagues. The balding man's hands were shaking, and a drop of coffee fell on the tiled floor. He hated the office. He really needed to move out of this God forsaken house. Nothing good has happened since he moved away from the house he's grown in, the house he and his wife lived in for years with their beloved only son, the biggest pride they had. His hands were still shaking as his eyes moved back to the picture of the boy, of his son, that was a grown up. Since when did he know how to make his own decisions in life, since when did he carry himself like a grown man? When did his little boy stopped being his little boy? He couldn't hold the coffee mug any longer, and his fingers almost allowed the warm glass to slip, so he quickly set it on the wooden desk, not caring if it would leave a mark- he will throw this desk anyway. Or leave it there. It didn't matter, the only thing that he knew for certain was that he's not gonna stay in this house any longer-- and took a few steps towards his chair on the other side of the desk. His belly got bumped with the desk, he still hadn't learnt to walk around with his growing belly- he's been eating a lot of sweets lately, trying to make life sweeter as reality made him sick to the pit of his guts. Tragedy, the word flashed in his mind. Every news website sent the message already. He sunk into the chair that was so familar with his backside already- he was sure no one else would ever find this chair comfortable. "He's done it now." The telephone rung loudly, cutting the silence in the house. The voice was so loud it almost made the balding man's heart leap out of his chest. His eyes stared at the phone with almost devious intensity. He'd wished that anyone that he could see or hear would die, or have their loved one die too. He didn't want anyone to mind him and his grief. Tragedy. Eventually, the balding man decided he's had enough of the loud ring, and stood up to answer. "Hello? John?" Instantly, he's known the voice. It was the only person in the world to share his loss. "Adrian." "I heard about what happened and was on my way, but... it's... I can't believe it." "Yeah, tragedy," he repeated the damned word. "And everything was looking up, too." "Yes." "I cannot believe what a damned day," he sighed, and John looked at the calender. It was April 5th, so yesterday was the 4.4. According to Chinese folklore, it was a bad number. It was a cursed number. "Both of them, gone." John managed to say. Tragedy, the word once more screamed in his mind. Tragedy, the recently signed soccer player died in a plane crush, merely four hours after his mother passed away, the title at the first page of the News section in the website said. Tragedy. "Just gone." Tragedy. "They're gone." Tragedy. He can't believe he's done it, that godda*n God of his. "He's really done it this time."