Stop Snoring Guarantee

Here it is:
The worn rock of the tombstone is damaged by the unforgiving rain. His eye rests on it sadly. The rough stone under his trembling fingertips remind him of that day. The day when his father had, unbeknownst to him, slipped from our world of the living into another. The sky was clear and blue; the poppies bloomed and bowed their heads to the song of the wind.
The day his father died had been a sunny one; his mother had been fairly happy, but he himself was ignorant as to why. His father had been lying on the couch as he always was, but he did not snore, nor did he stir in his rest. His father’s death was indeed sudden, but it wasn’t very damaging to the boy himself. Why, just the next day he was back to playing out in the fields with his peers.
After all, the world itself hadn’t changed. The poppies still bloomed, the sun still shined, the world still spun as it always has and always will. So if the world itself hadn’t changed, why should he? It was of no importance to him whether his father should live or die, at least, as long as the place he inhabited continued to do its job. No use crying over spilled milk, as was said to him many a time.
But now, there is pain in his heart where it had not been just a few years ago. And it is broken. He is broken. Quietly, he rises. His dark eye stares at the sun’s provocative glow. He scowls to himself, then turns and walks toward the orphanage. His home.
When he returns to the orphanage, he maintains his everyday routine. He gets his daily chores done. He plays with the children, smiles at them, feeds them, scowls at them, and more than anything, he resents them. He spites them, these children with everything given to them but their very own pair of parents. He cannot help it, in their blind and pathetic ignorance they believe all that is told them, and he feels as though it is their own fault because of this.
After he finishes his work, he lies down on his cot, feeling as restless as he always does, and without fail. His eye lies on the obnoxious grinning moon hanging tiredly in the black night sky. This night, he actually does something out of the ordinary, at least, in his own respect. He pulls himself out of his uncomfortable bed and starts down the dim corridor.
There is complete darkness, except for a shadowy figure bathed in the moonlight. He squints and the figure stands hurriedly. He holds his hand out to the quivering figure; but the figure ignores this kind and sympathetic gesture, not wanting to take part in charity in any way, shape, or form.
Tears roll down the figure’s cheeks. Sadly, he moves his hand toward the figure again, with hopeful intentions. This time, the figure slides its hand into his. He brings the figure to his room and shows it to the bed. The figure lies on it eccentrically; and words pass through its lips as its head meets the pillow. “Thank you.”
Let me know if you find it interesting or even good, thanks!!!
Please remember that I NEED your opinion, I CRAVE it!!! Please, answer truthfully and let me know if you would continue to read it! Thanks!

You have an interesting way with words, and initially, I grabbed onto your theme, but I feel, that something was lacking towards the latter stage….Did you have a particular direction…Was the shadow, supposed to be his friend or was it his fathers spirit that your are trying to portray, or maybe his own fabrication…….Anyway, because i felt there were so many possible avenues, you kind of lost me, but, i would love to see more from you….Let me know please !

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