Just as I left my workplace and turned around the first corner, enjoying the cozy protection of my umbrella in the downpour of the ages, begrudging only the unending noise of the automobiles passing by, I see a pile of papers, books and notebooks scattered about violently under the eves of my workplace. Notice them in the corner of my eye is what I did, not stopping for such trivialities. After all, I was about to have a cup of coffee at my favorite café, listen to Diana Panton and read Marxist theories. Then, faster than I could say workers of the world, unite, it struck me that the books must belong to a child attending one of the schools in the vicinity. I stop, turn around and walk up to the painfully ill-handled books. I see a firstname, in quite poor handwriting, scribbled on the front page of several notebooks: Incognito 4C. As if taken directly from any number of anime series, a flashback washes over me and I see myself being harassed, bullied, violated. Hating the world, hating myself. I snap out of it. I feel a burning sensation in my stomach. I feel the blood rush to my head. I make fists with both my hands. I go to the nearest school, just a few hundred meters walk from my workplace. I tell about the books, the firstname of their owner and their class. This is a junior highschool. There is no “4C” here. Try XYZ. I thank them, leave the school and call social services to report the matter. They thank me for the report, I thank them for receiving it and walk to my favorite coffee shop. Marx and his theories will have to wait. There is too much to feel there. After finishing writing this, I’ll read up on pointers and arrays in the programming language C instead. There is not as much to feel there.

int triggersOfTrauma;  
bool newExperience;  
if (newExperience == true) {  
	triggersOfTrauma++;  
}