[Main POV]
"This is a world you'll never understand, and you always fear what you don't understand." I remember—I heard that line in a Batman movie I watched once. I've always loved Batman. Maybe the reason I admire him so much is because he's not afraid—fear, that creeping dread, that helplessness in the face of the unknown—it's something that's always eaten away at me.
Beyond admiration, there's another feeling I've carried for Batman: envy. And strangely enough, it's not his billions I envy—though, given my own situation, that would make sense. No, what I truly envy is his fearlessness. The reason is simple: I'm the complete opposite. I'm a born coward.
All my life, I've been afraid. Afraid of everything, in every situation. In fact, you could say I'm a professional when it comes to fear—I've been practicing it since I was a kid. Because of that fear, when I was still little, I watched my mother suffer through domestic abuse, powerless to do anything. Actually, that's not entirely true… I could have done something. I could have called the cops, asked an adult for help—all I had to do was tell someone. But I didn't. And the reason I didn't was because I was scared—scared to the core of my being, to the depths of my soul. Fear that froze my mind.
Back then, I did nothing—and by doing nothing, I became a victim too, just like my mom. The two of us were beaten day and night by my father. But out of fear of suffering even more at his hands, I stayed silent.
And it was in that silence that I grew up. Eventually, I started school—a place that also filled me with dread. School had people. And up until then, people had only ever made me suffer. So I couldn't trust anyone there.
Because of fear, I avoided making friends. I thought maybe one of them would hurt me the way my father did. And so, I kept feeding the fear—my loyal companion through life.
One day, things at home got worse than ever before. My dad—an alcoholic and gambling addict—had a bad day, lost some money, and got stressed out. And when that happened, my mom and I already knew: we were going to suffer for it.
That day, he chose to beat my mother. I knew he was furious, so I locked myself in my room and waited for him to finish doing what he always did. All the while, I hoped I wouldn't be next. I just didn't want to suffer. I was afraid. And because of that fear, I did what I always did—I did nothing—even as I listened to my father beat my mother for hours on end. He only stopped when she finally stopped screaming in pain.
She hadn't gone quiet because she got used to the pain or anything like that. No, it was because, after the prolonged beating, she suffered a heart attack—brought on by the sheer stress of the assault.
That was the day I lost the only person who ever truly loved me. And I lost her because I was afraid. My father ran off, and I was finally free of him. But at what cost? Deep down, I knew I was just as responsible for her death as he was. My fear killed her.
Because of fear, I couldn't bring myself to go to her funeral.
And since she had no one else but me, she was buried without a final goodbye—forgotten by the world, by God, and by me. While the empty wake took place, I stayed home, torturing myself, crying alone.
A few months later, I managed to let go of some of the guilt and tried to enjoy the false sense of freedom that came with my father's absence. But the truth is, I wasn't free. As long as fear lived inside me, I would never truly be free.
And so, fear kept following me. Because of it, I couldn't hold down a job. Because of it, I never had a girlfriend. Because of it, I lost my home and ended up on the streets.
I spent most of my life on the streets. I lived like a rat—like I always had. Actually, no... more like a simple, spineless rat. I survived off scraps. I was humiliated by everyone.
I spent years wandering, searching for shelter, and just trying to stay alive.
Today is my 30th birthday. Out of those 30 years, I've spent nearly 12 of them living on the streets. Over those years, I've seen it all. But today felt different—like maybe, just maybe, it could be a good day. One of the shelters I visited from time to time found out my birthday was coming and surprised me with a small cake. So I could celebrate.
It was tiny, and I knew it probably only cost them a couple bucks, but it meant everything to me. It was the first birthday cake I ever got. And it reminded me of my mom—she always tried to get me a gift, or even a cake, for my birthday. But my dad thought that kind of thing was a waste of money.
So he'd always take whatever she scraped together and spend it on more booze.
With that little cake in my hands, I walked over to the spot where I usually hung out with some of the other homeless people I called my "friends." Out here, there's no such thing as real friendship. The idea of sharing is almost laughable—we barely have enough for ourselves, let alone someone else. But today I was happy. I wanted to share that tiny cake with the only people who'd stuck by me all these years. Not because they cared about me, but because they were stuck down here in the gutter with me.
But, as always, the world had other plans. My moment was ruined.
All because of some teenagers—kids who probably had nothing better to do—who decided to mess around with something as worthless as garbage. In this case, me.
They surrounded me, stole my cake and the last two dollars I had. Said they were filming a video for YouTube.
That moment kept replaying in my head.
They were well-dressed, wearing expensive, clean clothes. And still, they robbed me. They robbed me, who had nothing.
Why?
I kept thinking about that as I made my way here—to this bus stop.
Why is the world like this? I asked myself.
All my life, all I've ever known is pain—just pain, and nothing else.
That's why I started writing this. My whole life, I've been a prisoner of fear, and I don't want to keep living like this.
My name is Richard, and I'm done with this world. Just like the world gave up on me.
Those were the last words I wrote in my letter. Since I had no one to give it to, I just found a rock and placed it on top of the page—hoping the next person who sat at this bus stop might read what I had written.
I wanted at least one person to know my name—and a little bit of my story—before I did what might be the last thing I ever do.
With the letter ready, I stood up from the bench. I waited until a bus came speeding down the road, and then I did the only courageous thing I'd ever done in my life:
After one last moment of hesitation, I finally jumped in front of the bus.
I know this isn't the right way.
But for a rat like me, someone who's suffered every kind of hardship life could throw at him, it was the only way I could see out.
In that moment, only death could set me free.
[General POV]
In the city of Toronto, Canada, a tragedy occurred. Or rather—can it really be called a tragedy if the person who died had no money or status? The young man who jumped in front of a bus today had neither. He was just another homeless guy. No one cared that he died. No one cared that he lived. So why would anyone care now that he's gone?
Little Richard, who spent his whole life suffering, didn't even get a proper burial. In the end, he was laid to rest like any other nameless vagrant.
What no one knew was that, in that moment, Richard was more alive somewhere else—
And he would never again be just a small, frightened boy.
Richard was going to become something more—something far greater than he ever dreamed he could be.
To be continued…
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[N/A] If you've read this far, thank you! And since I'm terrible at handling compliments, please, insult me instead!