He woke to the grating scream of his alarm clock every day. 

He had been married for 10 years. 

He graduated 50 out of 100 in his class, his local state school. 

He had brown hair, brown eyes. 

He drank regular coffee daily. 

He was 5 feet, 10 inches tall.

He had two kids, and a dog.

He worked at an office.

He seldom interacted with his coworkers.

He didn't like or dislike his boss. 

He wasn't sure what the names of his kids' friends were.

He nodded his way through dinner parties.

He tuned out his daughter when she described her dreams.

He ignored his son when he showed up at the door of his office with toy cars.

He hadn't laughed in 1,460 days. 

He hadn't smiled genuinely for 349,920 minutes.

He had altogether forgotten what emotion felt like.

And although average was the exact word that most would've used to describe him, he thought of himself as a rebel: he sometimes parted his hair on the left side instead of the right. 

But today, today he parted, 

and he closed his eyes

 without dreading

 the sound of his alarm

 waking him in the morning.