As I slumped down on the sidewalk, my hand clutched an empty beer bottle—the last purchase of my life. I thought about everything, shedding bloodied tears. That night was to be my last and most painful. Having been abused and used all my life, I lay defenseless against the daggers of the storm. The wind howled, the street was littered with trash, and I was in the middle of it all, awaiting death.
No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I could never meet my own expectations. I was raised and cared for, but upon my coming of age, I discovered I was adopted. Although I was clothed and fed, I felt naked in my loveless existence. My heart ached, missing a huge chunk of what should have been filled with warmth. It pained me to see smiling children and the parents who played alongside them. I wanted that. I was greedy for love.
I hated that I had been abandoned. I hated having to beat back the punches and abuse from my inner circle. As I lay there, the one thing that had always bugged me became much clearer. I realized that I had loved football. I wanted to play, to smile and laugh with teammates. I wanted the joy of a crowd and the excitement of making dreams come true.
But in the end, I was a coward. I ran away from football because I was shy, because I was not a genius, because of my height. I buried myself in a delusional world, piling on work even when it was unnecessary. I refused to face my dreams for fear of failure. As I breathed my last breaths and my heartbeat slowly faded, I wished for a next time—a chance to chase my dreams.
Pitch blackness and silence surrounded me. I saw my own body as I slowly faded towards the sky. Alas, I am just a nobody in the end. I failed myself.
A sudden, immense pain shot through me. I couldn't see anything, but a shining orb of light appeared before me. As I stared into it, my past memories began to unfold. Scenes I could not remember and moments deeply engraved in me played out in sequence: the moment I was born, the day I was left at the orphanage, my adoption, the days of abuse, my school days. I don't know how much time had passed when the final memory—my death on the streets—began to fade.
A voice resonated around me. The mysterious orb claimed to be a messenger of God, and it spoke words that made me shudder. It declared me unworthy. As the light cursed me, it suddenly asked a question I had asked myself ninety-nine times a day: "Why did you run away?"
A simple yet burdensome question that had tormented me until my death. I gave my usual answer: "Because I am a coward." I was ashamed that even a divine entity had witnessed my shameful past.
The orb shone red, and I felt as though I were pierced by thousands of daggers. The messenger spoke once more, "And yet, you know this. Why did you not change?"
Facing this question felt like crumbling under an immense weight. I stayed silent as despair and sadness encompassed me. I realized that the most toxic, venomous poison leading to my downfall was, in the end, myself. I was reminded of people telling me to never give up, advice I had ignored. I saw people who started below me surpass me in life's endless race, and yet I did nothing. All that time on earth, I had killed my own soul. I blamed others, yet I did nothing for myself. I relied on others for support, and when I didn't receive it, I gave up. I shut myself off from the world, yet still expected the world to open its doors for me.
A flame of defiance ignited within me. As I faced the orb, I shouted, "Whoever the fuck you are, give me a chance, and I'll do it right! I am willing to sacrifice everything for a chance to chase my dreams once more!" Deep down, I felt guilty for even asking, but beside that guilt stood the passion I had once lost.
I stared into the orb in silence for what felt like an eternity. I was fighting for a possible last chance, one I would grab with both hands and feet. I didn't dare feel hopeful, but I wanted to die knowing I had at least tried to fight. The red orb suddenly disappeared, and my vision went blurry as the white space faded, a single black dot beginning to consume the light.
---
I awoke to the vigorous shaking of a figure. As I slowly regained my senses, I found myself in my room from ten years ago. The person who had woken me was my adoptive father.
I quickly ran to the bathroom, my mind a spiral of thoughts. I remembered stories about this very event. I had to see if it was real. Bursting through the bathroom door, I saw a small boy with black hair staring back from the mirror. Tears of joy welled in my eyes. I had really come back. I was given a chance, and this time, I would not waste it.
I brushed my teeth and ran to the dining room for breakfast. With my memory intact, I followed my usual routine. After eating, I went to school with my father, filled with boundless energy and joy at the thought of the future. I got on the bus, forging a path to where my new journey could begin: Catholic Morrison School, a primary school for foreigners.
Sitting on the bus, I noticed my dad looking at me with a puzzled expression.
"Dad,you alright?" I asked.
He stared back."Did something happen to you, Nick?" His expression wasn't one of worry, but a questioning gaze, like a police officer scrutinizing a suspect.
"I'm fine,Dad. I just feel happy today," I said, giving him my most innocent smile.
He sighed—a common reaction in our household,as I had been a restless, immature kid. "Well, just don't get into trouble," he said as I left the bus.
I waved goodbye, then turned and skipped towards school. A little about myself: my name is Nicholas Lawrence, I am eight years old, and I live in Hong Kong with my family of five: Mom, Dad, Kyle, Ronald, and me. We live in an apartment on the outskirts of the city. I am the youngest and was known to be a problematic child. At least, that was in the past. Now, with my past experiences, I have a feeling school might turn out to be better than it was before.