Going nuts
Here and there, insects crawled on the filthy walls of his bedroom. The bed itself was giving in, no longer able to support his weight. He laid there for days, maybe weeks, unable to summon even the smallest of wills to look for another job. He loathed sunrises and those who greeted morning with a smile. The world had crushed him down to the worst of desperations. Here, he was slowly dying an animal’s death—an agony-filled death in solitude.
Since he’d fled the war, he’d been fighting the unemployment that comes with being an "illegal immigrant". But now, he’d come to a point when unemployment was like a giant that stepped on top of him as if he was a tiny bug, or worse a microbe. In the new country, everyone asked for papers. Even for you to mow their lawns, these men would ask for your pieces of identity. Madness. These bastards couldn’t even be moved by the paleness on his bloodless face. They could not feel the consuming hunger in his stomach, the weakening lack of food in his body. Only they judged him on the basis of a piece of paper.
And so, he was becoming what he had feared the most: a man on the verge of stealing honest people, committing a crime to appease his hunger. This was poverty—poverty beating a man to his knees, robbing him of his integrity.