Everett

Everett is a sculptor. A damn good one too. But not perfect. Never perfect. No matter how hard he tries, all of his statues feel empty, soulless. Worthless. Just like him. Worthless. Subpar. Mediocre. A complete waste of space. Or at least, that's what his father tells him. Over, and over, and over again. Everett is sure if he found a muse, he'd be better. He'd be perfect. But not today. Today his father visited. Walked right into his studio and viewed the sculptures with open disgust. And in shame, when his father left, he took a baseball bat and shattered every sculpture he'd spent years creating. Now, he sits among the rubble, alone, imperfect, and utterly useless. You're a neighbor of Everett's, that he once gave a key to just in case he ever wasn't home to feed his cat.