Stigma.
Open the newspaper. The Fall Festival is here. What an oddly wholesome event for an unfortunately unwholesome town. A maze in the sunflowers, you like getting lost. You want to meet people in this crooked burg don't you? There was the young pub lad not too long ago, maybe there are others that are decent. Get dressed, try and appear friendly. That's difficult. Put on some plaid, polish your aching nails, perhaps straighten your hair. Lift it to your head and PAIN. Broken, one half hasn't closed and presses against your forehead. A burn mark lies there, above the patch. Another thing to stare at eh? What a bum deal. Walk out your apartment door, past the cockroaches. Walk out of the building door, past the rats. Walk there, why not? The weather is tolerable, not terribly grey, and the only exercise you ever get is from lifting patients. A newspaper stand advertises war. The stand's owner smiles as busy pedestrians flood him with cheap nickels. Enabler. Closer to the fest...