I'm a failure. Trash. Forgotten. Bullied, beaten, despised—then erased when everyone else moved on. Now they're back, using me again, like I'm nothing, leeching off me until the day I die. I never even understood the pain of what the hell happened. Why me?
My trembling hands grip the counter. WHRRR… The worn-out ceiling fan hums in this godforsaken shop—my uncle's, not my father's. It's stolen my youth, my childhood, everything.
I don't just wish to burn it all down. I crave it. Everything, reduced to ash.
GRIND. My teeth clench, swallowing a scream. Rage festers, a spark ready to ignite this prison.
I stare at the cracked screen of my cheap smartphone, anime flickering—the only escape tethering me to this world. But day by day, the colors fade. The veil of fiction lifts, exposing the truth: I'm a loser. SIGH. My breath catches, heavy with defeat.
High schoolers pass by outside, wearing the same uniform I once did. Memories of those days churn bitterness and envy in my gut. "Look at these rich kids with their bright futures," I mutter, tongue clicking. TCH.
I've wasted years in fiction, drowning in stories to avoid reality. Was it worth it? The colors of my escape grow dull, lifeless. My eyes drop to my bloated stomach, fingers tugging at my chubby chin. Yet, this escapism—it's kept me alive all these years. But for what?
TK… TKK. A finger taps my headphones, a decade-old relic. I glare up, annoyed, eyes narrowing at the intruder.
"You mad, brat? You don't listen, do ya? Been yelling for five minutes!" An annoyed man's brow twitches, glaring at me. I stare back, deadpan, unimpressed. "Anyway, four beers and a cig—quick!"
I glance at the sun blazing overhead. What kind of guy drinks at this hour? None of my business. CLINK. I slide the beers and cigarette across the counter. He grabs them, grinning. "Hey, kid."
"I'm twenty-eight," I snap, fury flaring in my eyes.
"Okay, little brother," he says, eyeing my massive headphones. "Be careful, those ain't good for you."
"Scram!" I bark. TCH. "None of your business. You're nobody to tell me what to do."
He clicks his tongue. TCH. Then walks off.
sit here, but I'm not really here. My body slumps behind the counter, a hollow shell. My soul—gone, unmoored, belonging nowhere. WHRRR… The ceiling fan drones, a lifeless hum.
"Aey!" A familiar voice jolts me. My heart thumps, a wave of nostalgia crashing over me. For the first time in years, a spark of happiness flares—like I've slipped back to better days. I leap from my chair, stumbling out of the shop. "Hey, Kar! Long tim—"
My words choke. Karter strides past, a curvy woman giggling on his arm. His glance meets mine—a split-second flicker of disgust and unease in their eyes. CRACK. My heart sinks. Is he married? That idiot? Shock, envy, hate, and sorrow twist in my gut, a new verse in my self-loathing. They're beautiful, radiant. My stomach churns, face flushes, sweat beads down my back.
"Who?" Karter says, voice tinged with strangeness. My friend doesn't remember me. Am I forgotten? Our eyes lock, but no words come. They glance at me, then turn, walking away!
"It's me! Ranol!" I scream, voice cracking. Karter turns, eyes wide with shock, not strangeness. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. "Ran?" He jolts toward me, leaving his wife stumbling. THUD. She hits the ground, cursing as she smacks dust from her clothes. "You mad man!"
Karter reaches me, circling, staring like I'm a ghost. "Are you really Ran?" he mutters, disbelief etching his face. "No way!"
"You don't look like him at all!" Karter stares at my face, too long, then nods. "But those eyes—you are him! Ran!" His wife, masking her anger with a tight smile, steps closer. "Oh, dear, is he your friend?"
"No, he's not," Karter says, his face cold. My cheeks burn. Then he grins, closing the gap. THUMP. He hugs me tight. "You fatty! When did you get this fat, huh?"
I laugh awkwardly. HA. "Congrats on the marriage," I mutter. We sit on a bench near the shop, drinks in hand. CLINK. The bottles tap as we talk—his college, his job, settling in the capital, meeting his goddess of a wife. She smiles, radiant. My jealousy claws, barely contained. We laugh, reminiscing about our golden high school days.
"By the way, Ran, what about Gairi? You two still together?" Karter asks.
"Uh, we were never together," I mumble, voice gloomy.
"Haha, didn't I tell you a thousand times she liked you? And you never asked her!"
"Something like that happened? I don't remember."
"What about now? Got someone? Let's do a double date tomorrow!"
"I… I'm single." My words hang heavy. Karter's mouth drops, disbelief stark on his face.
"You!" Karter's brow twitches. "You didn't listen to me, and now look at you!" SHAKE. He grips my shoulders, shaking me. We scroll through old photos on his phone. "Where are you, you idiot? Never were a camera guy, huh!"
I've got photos too, but shame keeps my cracked phone buried in my pocket. His sleek phone glints, blinding me. How much fortune did you make? His dad ran a small bakery—nothing fancy. She must be filthy rich. My thoughts spiral.
"Oh!" His wife's eyes widen, snatching the phone. She stares at a photo, then at me. "Is that… really you, Big Brother Ran?"
(She's five years younger than Karter, and I'm two years younger than him, but she calls me "Big Brother" anyway.)
I glance at the photo. My eyes widen. FLASH. A high school me—sharp in a uniform, face like a model on a billboard. I look at my reflection in the shop window—bloated, unrecognizable. Day and night. No wonder he didn't know me.
SMACK. Karter slaps my shoulder. "He was the most popular guy in high school. Stood out in any crowd, a one-in-a-thousand face. Girls went wild just to talk to him, but he'd always run, shy as hell!" His gaze shifts, serious now, tinged with sadness and pity in their eyes.
Karter and his wife leave. I drag myself back to the shop, mind a tangled mess. DRIP. A tear falls. DRIP… DRIP. More stream down my face as I shove snacks into my mouth. What's one or two missing? Shelves are stuffed, and what does that bastard uncle give me anyway? My life's already ruined. "Oh, heavens above, why this? Why this cursed fate?" I scream, shaking.
I don't notice how long it takes, but six empty snack packets litter the counter. CRUNCH. "I deserve it!" I snarl. "You deserve this loss, you bastard! I'll eat everything!" Tears drip, soaking my shirt.
TCH-TCH-TCH. "Pathetic, look at yourself!" A voice, familiar and distant, cuts through. Nostalgia stabs me, sharp and bittersweet.
"Farian?" I mutter, staring at another old friend—or someone I used to know. Years ago, he'd come daily, unlike Karter who settled far away. Farian bought cigarettes—one pack, sometimes two or three. My hand fumbles to the counter, grabbing a box of mint cigarettes. My gaze drops.
"Hey! Don't ignore me!" Farian snaps, voice mocking. "Look at yourself!"
I glance at the mirror. CRACK. Dried tears streak my face, eyes bloodshot, lips smeared with chocolate and chip spices. "Disgusting!" Farian laughs, lighting a cigarette. HISS. He steps closer, inside the counter, his face inches from mine. COUGH, COUGH. He puffs smoke in my eyes.
"Accept your circumstances!" he sneers. "Stop pretending you're someone else. Accept it, take control of your life. I've watched you get worse every day. Look at you—" DRIP. Tears fall from my eyes. "—crying like a bitch. Grow a pair, be a man. I'm saying this as an old friend. I can't stand seeing you like this."
PAT. He slaps my shoulder and walks out.
Farian's words echo. Something has to change. I'm not dead yet, but what can I do? My tears are dry, my chest hollow. My father died when I was sixteen. My mother? Gone when I was seven—her face a blur I can't recall. Twelve years an orphan, living like a dog. Who'd give me money? Support? My face twitches.
"Accept who you are and take control," Farian sneered. What does that asshole know? I stew, but curiosity wins. TAP. My cracked phone lights up. I search the net, finding a video. A bald man speaks of philosophy—stoicism. STIR. Something sparks in me. I get it.
Customers keep coming, interrupting. AEY! I shoo two kids, tossing them random candy to shut them up. CLICK. Another video. A man with brown skin in a blue robe stares through the screen, piercing my soul with advice. Strength surges. "Why didn't I find this years ago?" I mutter, frustration biting.
HOWAQ! My uncle's grating, gibberish song slices through the shop. My heart lurches—the monster I despise, the bastard who devoured my past, present, and future. I'll kill him someday. My fists clench. GRIND.
He glares at me, then the shelf. "You brat! How many times—this goes there!" he roars, finger jabbing. "What did your mother do, your father, you retard? She should've killed you at birth, useless!" His words boom like an amplifier, drawing a crowd. They point, snicker. I'm a dog again, kicked and mocked. Why always me?
I've slaved here, hauling heavy sacks, doing everything. Yet it's never enough. The blue-robed man's voice echoes in my mind: No one's gonna stand up for you. Speak up. I grit my teeth. "Shut up!" I scream, but it's frail. CRUMBLE. Tears spill, my resolve fracturing. My wail turns incoherent, a desperate howl.
The crowd's laughter surges. "He's lost it, retard!" someone jeers. My stomach churns, snack packets spilling from my pocket. THUD. "Oi, Pig, you dropped something, fat ass!" they mock. No one cares. No one ever did. I run, tears streaming. HNNN!
Karter and his wife appear, their glances cold, darting to the crowd. Someone trips me. TRIP. My feet tangle, face slamming concrete. SMACK. DRIP… DRIP… DRIP. Blood and tears mix, oozing from my nose. I look up, pleading. Karter hesitates, but his wife pulls him away, avoiding the crowd's gaze. Didn't she call me Big Brother Ran hours ago? Her warmth now feels like a lie, cutting deeper. He glances back once, then walks off, never turning.
Something shatters inside. I'm nothing. I laugh—hollow, unhinged—chocolate and chip spices smeared across my bloodshot face. CLICK. Phones capture my ruin. The crowd roars, and I laugh louder, mocking my broken, absurd life.