What's the point in trying to live?
To find hope or a sense of meaning?
Why try so hard, when all it offers is nothing but constant pain and struggle?
Until you realize that the world had long stopped caring about you a long time ago.
These thoughts hit me almost every morning.
I wake up, stare at the ceiling of my room, wondering if today will be any different.
But that's just wishful thinking.
The stench of piss and booze fills my lungs as I breathe in and out, while the sight broken glass from a nearby window greets me in the living room.
This apartment? It's a dump.
You can't even call it a home.
There's mold in every corner, roaches crawling on the walls, garbage littered all over the place, and not even proper running water.
But hey, at least the rats in the alley get free food when the neighbors toss out their wasted leftovers.
Probably living better than I am.
The old man does nothing but spends his days glued to a stained recliner, smelling like sweat and cigarettes with booze in one hand, remote in the other.
Whenever he loses the lottery, he screams curses at the TV, while looking for something or someone to take his anger out on, mainly me or my mother.
If I breathe wrong near him, I get a backhand.
If I talk? A fist.
And if I look at him funny, it's a proper beating.
My mother? What's there to say. I don't think he's hit her in a while, but that's only 'cause she learned to stay out of his way.
She's like decoration. Just kind of... there. Scared, silent, and tiptoes around like a ghost that's too afraid to leave the home it died in.
I used to wish for her to stand up for me or herself at least once, or take me away by hand to somewhere far away where we can make a fresh start.
But no.
She's nothing but a submissive coward who just lowers her head and chants apologies like it's some kind of prayer.
I hate her. But I hate him even more for making her like that.
Outside, the city's no better.
Graffiti layered on top of more graffiti, trash overflowing from dented bins, and filthy strays and homeless wander the streets for whatever scraps they can scavenge.
Street gangs and mafia roam around, picking fights and killing one another like it's a sport.
The residents here either don't give a damn or gave up pretending a long time ago.
Everyone's just looking out for themselves.
Either for their next fix of dopamine, or searching for reasons and excuses to keep playing this shitty game we call life.
The cops? Please. Nothing but a bunch of corrupt assholes.
They're just another gang of crooks with badges and better gear.
The only time they're around is to harass nobodies like me or shake down shop owners who didn't "pay protection" this month.
I once saw a guy get jumped by three of them last week, just for mouthing off. They laughed while he bled.
All this, while those pompous pricks on top of skyscrapers look down on us like ants slaving away for their queen.
School? What a joke.
Teachers who don't even teach. Kids who act like animals.
Half the time, I don't even know who's running the place—administration or the kids who think they own the halls.
I ain't a straight-A student or anything.
Hell, I barely pass.
But if I see some punk beating on a weaker kid, I jump in.
I don't even know why sometimes.
Half of them are pathetic anyway, always taking it, crying and begging instead of trying to fight back.
But I can't stand seeing cowards or monsters win.
I'll be damned if I ever turn into someone like my father—or become as spineless as my mother.
Maybe I do it for them.
Or maybe I just enjoy watching the look on these bastards faces when I show them how weak they truly are.
Between fights, I work. Trash jobs. Anything I could do.
Sweeping floors in some greasy diner, unloading boxes for a guy who never looks me in the eye, handing out flyers in a mall where people pretend I'm invisible.
I stash every penny I make in a place only I know of.
One day, I'll get out. Far away from this city, these people, this life. That's the hope I still hold onto.
At least, that's what I thought.
. . .
Walking home, the streets are quieter than usual.
No shouting.
No sirens.
Not even the sound of barking or meowing can be heard.
Just the sound of flickering streetlights and the footsteps of my worn out shoes on the tarmac road.
I turn the last corner to my block and freeze.
There's a car parked outside my building.
Not just any car. Sleek. Black. Polished like a mirror. No dents. No rust.
Definitely not from around here.
It just sits there.
Engine off.
Windows tinted pitch-black.
A nervous pit starts twisting in my gut.
I hurry up the stairs two at a time. The front door's already open. That's never a good sign. My heart races as I step inside.
In the middle of the hallway stands a man dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his presence quiet but commanding.
His hands rested atop a polished cane, and though he didn't move, something about him felt calculated—like he was waiting for someone.
Two men in black wearing sunglasses stand behind him like statues.
My mom's on the floor hugging her knees, rocking back and forth, head down, and whispering something I can't hear.
Her hands shake.
Her whole body looks like it might collapse if the breeze picks up.
My dad? He's grinning.
Goddamn grinning.
Drool on his lip as he runs his hands over a silver briefcase overflowing with cash.
His eyes shine like he just won the lottery.
"What... the hell is going on?" I ask.
The man doesn't answer.
One of the suits steps forward and hands me a folder. Inside, there's a contract. Two signatures at the bottom.
Mine isn't one of them.
The paper crinkles in my fingers as I clench tightly.
My eyes scan the words, trying to make sense of them.
It's all legal crap—formal, cold, written by someone who doesn't care who bleeds over the fine print.
But the message is clear.
By signing this agreement, the undersigned hereby relinquish all legal and parental rights and responsibilities for the subject known as [REDACTED]. In exchange for monetary compensation, they agree to permanently revoke custody.
At the bottom, two signatures.
One scrawled in my father's ugly, drunken handwriting.
The other in my mother's shaky, barely legible script.
No hesitation. No second thoughts.
They sold me.
I look up with my heart pounding my chest. My mother still won't meet my eyes.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" She mutters to herself repeatedly like an asylum patient.
My father doesn't even notice me.
He's too busy rubbing stacks of bills between his fingers like he's finally found his purpose in life.
"You… you sold me?"
No one answers.
The man in the suit just stares, calm and still like this is nothing more than another Tuesday.
"YOU SOLD YOUR OWN SON FOR MONEY!?" I shout, voice cracking.
My dad chuckles. "You're not worth half of what's in this case, boy. Be grateful someone found value in ya. You're more useful now than you ever been."
Something inside me snaps.
I lunge at him, fist clenched. But I don't make it two steps before one of the suits moves faster than I thought possible.
A sharp blow to the stomach folds me in half, and the next thing I know, my vision explodes in sparks.
A hand grabs me by the neck, knocking me out cold with one punch.
Darkness slowly takes over me.
. . .
I don't know how long I've been out for, but when I open my eyes, everything feels wrong.
My arms and legs are strapped to a metal chair.
The cold leather digs into my skin. A strange, looking device wraps around my head, humming softly like it's trying to read my mind.
The room smells sterile, covered in nothing but white.
I try to speak, but my throat is dry. My tongue feels like sandpaper.
My vision begins to clear.
The man from before stands in front of me, his suit crisp, his hands still holding that cane of his. He smiles—not warm, not fake.
Just empty.
"Ah, good. You're awake," he says. "Don't try to move. You're secured for your own safety."
I glare at him. "What the hell is this?"
"You're going to be part of something much bigger than yourself now," he says.
"A grand future, requires a necessary sacrifice."
He paces around the room slowly, circling me like I'm some art piece at a museum.
His voice is calm, like a doctor explaining a routine procedure.
"You should feel proud. Most people waste their lives chasing things they cannot hope to gain. But you, on the other hand—you get to give yours meaning."
"F**k you."
I spit in his face with what little saliva my mouth could produce.
He chuckles softly. "You're quite the feisty one. I wonder how long you can keep that up."
A man wearing a white lab coat behind him steps forward and presses a mask over my face.
A strange odorless gas hisses into my lungs, too sharp, too cold.
I try to hold my breath, but my body gives in.
I gasp.
The room starts to blur.
My heartbeat slams against my chest like a kick drum.
Everything slows.
A voice—maybe the man's—echoes through the fog in my head.
"What's wrong? Where'd your enthusiasm go?"
Blurred shapes float in and out of my vision. Lights. Tubes. Machines. People moving behind glass.
I can't move. I can't fight. I want to scream but I can't breathe.
My body feels heavy, like I'm being pulled under water.
Is this it?
All the fights, all the jobs, all the nights I spent dreaming of running away—was it all for nothing?
That stupid coffee can hidden under the floorboard.
All those years I saved.
All the bruises I got for standing up to assholes.
All the times I told myself I was better than this place. That I could escape.
None of it mattered.
Everything I did, everything I endured—gone. Just like that.
I'm trapped in this body, in this moment, with nothing left but the sound of my own dying heartbeat.
Beep... beep... beep…
The rhythm slows.
I feel cold.
Beep... beep…
My chest is tight. I can't breathe. I can't feel my fingers. My skin is numb. My vision's going dark.
Beep…
Beep…
Beeeeeeeeeeep—
. . .
Everything goes black.
My eyes struggle to stay open as I continue to drift.
Maybe I'm dead.
Maybe I never existed in the first place.
Maybe I was just another face in a city that eats people and chucks them away like waste.
Maybe the whole world was always like that to begin with.
My name doesn't matter.
My life? Didn't mean a damn thing in the end.
I wonder, when did everything start to go wrong?
Well, it doesn't matter anymore I guess.
There's nothing left for me to care about anymore.
For the first time, I stop fighting. I stop resisting.
I let go of everything—my anger, my hate, my hope.
It all floated off into the dark like ashes in the wind.
. . .
I'm not really one for religion or superstitions but…
If there is a god—anything or anyone out there…
My only wish to them is that in my next life, I hope things will be different.
If such a thing even exists.
Extraction of Soul Data No. 901… Complete.
Generating Backup Data… Complete.
Saving to Archives… Complete
Awaiting Further Orders…