[ WP ] Write a story in which a character slowly loses his empathy and humanity because of how society treats him as well as having us empathize with him .

I love people. 
 
 I know that sounds weird, but it's true. Considering the cynicism of my friends and family, who sardonically say things like `` I hate people'' and share links like'20 Dumbest People on Facebook Will Make You Lose Faith in Humanity', it seems really un-modern. But I do n't think it's that strange. 
 
 It becomes a serious problem when I'm out. I walk by a beggar and I want to hear his story. Sometimes it's a story of rough childhood – parents who are fast to the fist or constantly unsatisfied with the amount of drink they've had. Other times it's a story about how difficult it is to find a job in this market. And I believe that, I've been searching for months. So I'll kneel down and listen. My friends used to roll their eyes and continue on to our destination while I'd catch up. I do n't have a lot, but before I go I always spare what I can. 
 
 As I walk around this new city downtown I find myself lost in the lives of others: the woman seated by the fountain with a large manila envelope and a look of regret on her face; the two clearly unrelated young girls with short braids and identical spring jackets; the lanky teenaged boy wearing brown slacks and an overlarge dress shirt billowing out at the sides, with a wide windsor knotted necktie pushing his collar up in the wrong places, escorting a young shapely girl about his age into the local Chili's. I ca n't help but be moved by the meaning that these experiences have for these individuals. It moves me to think that across the world at any given point there is enough joy to last an individual's life span. And I have fun seeing how much of a person's life I can guess from the moment I see them. 
 
 Ever since I've come here for university I've been struggling with these thoughts more and more. Instead of making new friends I sit back and watch them. I wagered with myself –'I'll write their life stories in my mind and when I eventually get introduced to them I will verify how much I have gotten right'. The only problem I have is that with two months into classes I still have no friends to meet people by. My conversations with the people I watch I perceive as awkward and forced. I stumble over words and ca n't tell if the person has made a joke. I feel I have made efforts, but nobody seems to want to spend any time with me. I overhear that people are going to a pub, so I go. I sit at the bar and drink alone, my face heating up. 
 
 I received a letter from my university. My funding has fallen through because my parents' combined salary is too high. They do n't take into account that my father has ditched us for his new wife in Switzerland and my mother is an underpaid secretary trying to feed my younger sisters. I keep looking for work to pay for school, but everything is coming up short. My only bright spot in the day is walking in the park: a man with an orange toque and yellow track suit walking his Newfoundland; a heart carved into a tree with initials'L.B.+M.B.'; a child holding an empty cup with ice cream residue on his shirt and chin. 
 
 My grades are slipping because I ca n't focus. I do n't want to worry Mom, she works so hard to keep Sara and Missy fed and clothed and happy. She thinks everything is working out here and I ca n't hurt her by letting her know. I got cancelled my apartment lease yesterday. 
 
 Some days are better than others. A glitch with my old student I.D. means I can shower at the university gym, and I've managed to keep a backpack with a few books and a change of clothes. I have n't really got the money to afford razors so I've grown hard looking. Places are starting to look for workers, but I can see the look on the managers' faces when I tell them I'm available. It's the same look I get when people come across my corner in the street. A mixture of pity and disgust. It's actually less painful than the looks I'm starting to get while begging: the looks that pass through you like you are n't even there. People coming out of a cash only coffee shop, pockets jingling and staring as if you were no more than the stale smell of the street. I am here! I am a person with a story! See me! I do n't even mind the people who look at me with some sort of lie. `` Oh sorry, it's all plastic these days! Heh heh...'' Indeed. 
 
 I have n't eaten in two days. I've become tired of waiting for handouts. I sit in the park and watch people: a tiny asian woman with a Coach bag and high heeled boots; an elderly man walking his toddler grandson, feeding ducks; a young married couple out on a run. The easiest target is the grandfather, who will probably give it up willingly as long as I do n't hurt the child. I'm not carrying a weapon, but he does n't know that. I slide my hat over my face and prepare.
