"Just a human who wants to live" that phrase sums up my entire approach to life. I was never ambitious, never a dreamer. I was simply an ordinary person, with simple dreams and goals even simpler than they should be.
I never sought wealth, power, or to have my memory etched into people's hearts. All I wanted was to live a dignified life, nothing more.
But down in the lower district, even such a modest wish is considered a luxury. Here, dreams are crushed underfoot, hope rots in dark corners, and waking up with enough in your pocket for tomorrow's meal is an achievement worth celebrating.
Still, I was lucky. Yes despite everything I was lucky. My father owned a small shop where he sold herbs and bits of scrap metal. My mother never once complained about fatigue, cold, or pain. She cared for us silently, with tenderness overflowing from her eyes.
Our life wasn't perfect, but compared to those around us, it was a small paradise. We ate together. Sometimes we laughed. On my birthday, my mother would make a modest loaf of bread, stick a single candle in it, and sing to me in her soft voice.
But happiness here never visits without leaving the next day. It arrives without warning and disappears without notice.
My mother's health began to deteriorate. Bit by bit, she rose with difficulty, coughed up blood, and smiled faintly. My father didn't give up. He roamed the entire district, knocked on pharmacists' doors, and humbled himself before doctors who wouldn't open their mouths unless you first opened your wallet. He tried every remedy, but nothing worked.
Debt began to pile up. He borrowed from the market, from men who spoke only the language of numbers and threats. Every time, he came back holding a small bag of medicine.
I stood at the doorway, watching helplessly watching my mother wither away, and my father slowly crumble. And then, within days, she was gone. After a long fight, she chose to leave. I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. She tried to smile, fighting the pain, and said to me in a faint voice: "I'm fine… don't worry about me."
But she wasn't fine. She never was she only pretended. After she passed, my father, that simple man as solid as stone, broke. He became fragile, like cracked glass. His eyes were empty. He no longer sold, no longer spoke. He would sit in the shop for hours, staring at the door. I tried to be strong, to fill the void she left.
Every night, I heard him cry quietly. His condition worsened day by day, until one morning he simply didn't wake up. He followed my mother to the sky.
At his funeral, I stood before his grave in silence, without tears. I thought I had hit rock bottom, that I had lost everything a person could lose. But I was naïve. In this city, the bottom has no bottom.
That same day, they didn't even give me the chance to mourn. The creditors came. Faces like stone, without a shred of mercy. They entered the house, turned everything upside down, took the herbs, the scrap, even the old books. Everything.
I couldn't resist. I just stood there like a statue, watching them loot the remnants of my father's life without saying a word. When they left, I walked out with them without being told. I knew the house was no longer mine.
I walked aimlessly through the street. All I had left was my father's name, my mother's memory, and an empty heart beating without purpose. I raised my head toward the gray, cloud choked sky.
I was just a man who wanted to live. But even that seems too much for people like me.
***
I searched for work for so long that I began to forget why I had started searching in the first place. Eventually, I found a job in an old factory.
I scraped money together breath by breath. I bought the cheapest food, wore the same shirt for months, saved on everything even on breathing. I slept on a damp piece of cardboard between cold walls. Many nights, stray cats curled up against me for warmth. I envied them envied their freedom, envied the fact they had nothing, because that meant they had nothing to lose.
Ten years passed like this. I worked at anything that could earn me a few coins the factory by day, loading and unloading shipments by night, washing in the morgue when work was available.
Then she appeared. A tea seller who stood at the corner of the alley, with a small tray and eyes that watched the passersby. Her face wasn't beautiful by common standards, but to me? It was the most beautiful face on this earth.
She spoke to me after my shift. Sometimes she'd ask about the weather, sometimes tell me about a fight in the next street, as if we were old friends.
I grew attached to her. At first, I didn't know if it was love. Maybe it was just clinging to something anything. But I loved her. I still don't understand how I dared to ask for her hand. I was trembling, but she agreed.
We married in a room barely big enough for two. Yet, despite everything, it was our home.
Then came our child. That night, when I looked at his tiny face and held him for the first time, I told myself:
"I won't let him go through what I went through."
It was a promise. Maybe one I couldn't keep. Maybe life would break me again. But I would fight. Fight for him, to my last breath in this worn out body. From that day on, I no longer lived just for myself. I lived for them for that small family.
I had once been just a man who wanted to live.
But now?
I am a man who wants to give others a better chance.
***
My son recently turned three.
Sometimes he calls me by my name. He shouts it in the street and laughs, then runs toward me with open arms and in that moment, I forget everything.
I bought a modest home. Opened a small shop at the corner of the neighborhood, selling basic goods. And honestly? I was happy.
For the first time in my life, I felt life smile at me a small, shy smile. But it seems life was deceiving me, giving me some joy only to take it back later.
One morning, when my son was eleven, I noticed my wife could no longer get out of bed. She said she was just tired. But I knew fatigue when I saw it and this wasn't fatigue.
And so began another journey doctors, medicine, endless visits. Fear that sat beside me every evening. Fear of losing her like I lost my mother.
I searched everywhere. Spent everything I had. Went to clinics in places I never knew existed. Some doctors sold me false hope for a handful of coins, others only shook their heads in fake sympathy.
In the end, the last doctor said, in a flat tone:
"Her condition is hopeless. She has a few months left at most."
I didn't understand the sentence. I didn't want to. My mind rejected every word. After that, I sold the shop. Spent everything left, hoping to buy her a little more time. One evening, I sat by her side, holding her hand. She whispered to me:
"Live your life, raise our son, and forget me."
Then she smiled, as if apologizing for leaving. And then she was gone without a goodbye. She simply went silent. And everything went silent with her.
I sat there beside her, staring at her features. I waited for her to move, to say my name, to open her eyes and laugh like she used to. But she didn't.
Since that day, life has lost all taste. My son still sometimes calls me by my name and laughs but I no longer laugh. Every morning, I woke more exhausted than the day before. And the debts? They weren't just numbers anymore they became nightmares with legs, knocking on my door every day.
And here I am now, with nothing left but my child. My only child the last thing this world hasn't taken from me. I clung to him like a drowning man clings to a broken plank in the middle of the sea.
But life or rather this time, the beasts that inhabit this city don't leave anything untouched. They didn't knock on the door. They broke it down and entered.
One of them said flatly:
"You still haven't paid your debt. We'll take the boy."
I ran, stood in front of them, arms outstretched between him and them. One of them tried to pull him away. The boy was crying, clinging to my leg in fear. And I fought with bare fists, with teeth, with nails even when they beat me down. Even when I felt my bones breaking. They hit me until I couldn't recognize faces anymore. Still, I resisted. And in the end, I watched them take him.
I was left lying in a narrow alley, blood running down my face.
"Come back… don't take him… please…"
And he was screaming my name. Not "Dad", not "Papa" just my name, like he did when playing. But this time, he wasn't laughing. His last scream still echoes in my ears.