He locked his house and started walking towards the bus stop. Many people bumped into him on the way, but they continued walking without offering any apologies. Perhaps they were preoccupied in worlds of their own or maybe it was his attitude that made them ignore him. He called curses after them, asking them if they thought he was invisible. They did not answer.

They bus arrived and after some jostling he got on. As he sat down on the last seat, he noticed that he had lost his left thumb. He bought his ticket and was settling down for a long ride to the office when a group of youngsters entered the bus and laughing, came towards him. There were a few places empty next to him for he always sat in the corner. They all sat down and one almost pushed him off his seat, but he did nothing and just adjusted himself.

Seeing their youthfulness, he tried to remember his childhood. He had been a rather sickly boy - one of seven children of a miller. He was not the eldest or the youngest, but as usual, somewhere in the middle. The Hills were not well-off and so every benefit was a veritable blessing. When he went to school it was never he who put his hand up to answer questions or help the teachers and they reciprocated by ignoring him and never lavishing even a scolding on him. He had very few friends and those that he did were much like him - the silent and morose types. So they got along - not well or badly but just along. He never thought these things odd or unfair because this was the only life he knew and so he lived it.

He did not think much - he had no fantasies or ambitions and even if you had shown him his facelessness and virtual non-existence he would have just nodded and gone on not-living. He was doomed from the start and it was just a matter of time.

The bus stopped and the children got out. The jacket and pant of one were blood-stained but he did notice. The others did not pay any attention to him as usual and ran on ahead. The boy did not feel a finger drop off as he walked away.