Bartholomew walked depressingly down the depressing road, before opening the door to his parents house. He walked gloomy past his dad, who was on the couch sipping a beer. He glared at his beta, and less sigma son. He knew the look well. It was one of disappointment.
Bartholomew glances at his dad, feeling … sad. But, he immediately tried to push it down. Alphas don't get sad, Alphas don't feel emotions. His father threw an unopened can of beer at his head. It exploded open upon impact. Bartholomew teetered and fell, the force of the throw from the alpha in the house knocking off his socks, literally.
“Get back to your cave of shame, beta,” his fatherly parental figure growled, asserting dominance over the now quivering beta.
“Yes fatherly parental figure,” the beta sighed.

Bartholomew crawled on all fours to his parents basement, where he lived at 37 years old. Or, as his parents liked to call it, the cave of shame.
After opening the door and sliding on his belly down the unfinished stairs, hitting his head on the hard concrete floor at the bottom, he sighed and plopped down onto his “bed” made out of cardboard boxes. He placed his glasses, which were barely being held together by 15 pieces of scotch tape, in counting.
He lay his dodecahedron shaped head down, and, with a single tear streaming down his face, went to sleep.
The beta didn't get to eat. He couldn't catch anything himself, and while some sigma parents would provide for their beta children, his, like the majority, didn't. So, as usual, he went to sleep hungry. Sad. Alone. And forever, unsigma.