"The pretense of fairness was created by God to make the living equal. However, humans changed that," a certain being once said.
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"Is it wrong to be average?"
The question came out, before being swallowed by his lips. Others had soared. The grades. The praises. The smiles. It had cost them nothing, while he had watched from the sidelines. Hands empty, sore from carrying nothing but shadows.
He had remembered a man's words: As long as there is a concept of 'winners', there will always be losers.
He glanced up. He had thought the sky was filled with answers or at least questions that could be solved if he tried hard enough. Yet, what remained sagged over him like a damp canvas, heavy and indifferent. God?
What God?
At the end of each day, he stood there alone. No light to follow. No warmth to embrace. The only remains was a faint echo of a dying woman.
"Oh, mother." His voice silenced by the thundering and droplets of rain. His fingers brushing over a grave. Its name now faded.
"I wonder if you would hate me too."
His father had vanished when he was born.
Not that he cared anyway.
A puddle at his feet coughed up a reflection, barely resembling him. Streaks of mud, hair plastered to his face and pale cheekbones. Trash and waste. The words didn't need to be spoken, yet pressed louder than the falling rain and crackling thunder.
He barked out a strange laugh, if it could be called one. It was more of a strangled noise. Thin and brittle as if shards ran through his chest.
The rain thickened, rushing down the gutters. Crawling across the cobble like veins, but swollen and diseased. Ready to burst. But Vergil didn't move but tipped his head back, the rain wetting his face. Eyes that once caught light now filled with a weakly grey.
Splash. Splash. Stomp.
Footsteps approached, heavy and deliberate.
A gloved hand smothered his mouth.
His body jerked as his eyes widened, his heart battering as if it was ready to explode.
But it was too late. A sharp sting needled the base of his neck. The fluids flooded his veins. Muscles betraying him, the graveyard tilting sideways.
In his eyes, the world blurred. Like ink being smudged across a page, as the darkness seeped in. Swallowing sight. Swallowing sound and eventually him.
---
Eventually his consciousness clawed its way back up, vision foggy as shapes bent and shaped with each blink.
He tried moving but his limbs were strapped. He lay flat on something unyielding and cold. Looking above, he could only narrow them as a panel of light glared over him, humming like a beehive. Figures moved past his vision, hiding their faces with a mask.
For a heartbeat, he thought they were doctors. But the clink of instruments on steel trays. The stench of alcohol burning his nose. The figures observing him. None promised 'healing'.
A voice sliced through the room, cruel and cold. "Boss, he's awake."
He turned his head slowly, trembling. The muscles failing at doing a simple act, his chest squeezing as panic overtook his lungs. Wild and useless.
Another voice came. This time, cold and clinical. Flipping through a dialogue.
"Organs intact. Blood type compatible. Heart, liver; kidney viable. The rest can be sold for extra cash."
Laughter slithered through the room. Mocking and mean. Then the words came out. "You see, your father hasn't paid his debts and isn't it fair for the son to repay the father?"
The one called Boss leaned over, blocking the light. The smile he gave was all teeth and no warmth. "What a pathetic family. At least you're worth something."
Vergil's throat began tightening. He tried to scream. But for what purpose? Nobody there would save him. Then the sound came out again. Warped with laughter out of his throat.
Harsh, cracked and jagged. Enough to scare those present.
The surgeons hesitated, giving uneasy glances. "Is he broken or mentally insane?" one muttered.
"Doesn't matter," another spoke, lifting a syringe. The fluids gleaming under the light.
The boss flicked his fingers. "Keep the boy awake, think of it as a premium package. If you have someone to blame, he can curse the runaway father."
As the needle bit into his neck, liquid fire spilled into him. His spine was seized instantly, his limbs sagged until they were numb. The only thing that stayed.
Was the sensation. Too much even.
As steel touched his skin. The first incision tore him open. Wet and merciless as the blood flowed. A saw shrieked against the bone, grinding it, its vibration rattling his jaws until his molars ached.
Stop... please. The thought scraped his skull. But his lips were closed. Shut tight.
As the warmth spread beneath him, pooling and sticky against his back.
Badump. Badump.
He could see his beating heart, slowly beating, as they slowly took it out of his chest. The darkness curled into the edges of his vision.
He clung desperately to the last threads of hope. His survival instincts kicking in.
'I don't want to die. Not yet.'
But nothing answered.