Outside, the New Year's fireworks are exploding. The sky flashes momentarily in hues of blue, red, and gold, while at that very moment, salty water seeps through the damp-rotted ceiling of our dilapidated house in Old Dhaka. The wall clock doesn't tick; it rings like a death knell, racing against the rhythm of my heartbeat.
It was 2:00 AM.
My name is Aryan. My new life was supposed to begin today. I've been admitted to a prestigious school in Grade 8 using the last bit of money my father had saved. But right now, every pore of my body shudders with humiliation and hatred.
Our tiny room is divided by two thin plywood boards. My mother is on the other side. My father and I are on this one.
My father's name is Shamsher. There was a time when all of Bangladesh knew him as 'The Iron Fist.' A single punch from him in the boxing ring meant a one-way ticket to the ICU for his opponent. But today? Today, he sits huddled in a corner of our room. In front of him is a cheap bottle of liquor, half-empty. His eyes are bloodshot, as if a hellfire is burning within them.
Scritch... scratch...
The sound comes from the other side of the partition. The muffled laughter of a man with a heavy voice, mingled with my mother's piteous, pleading tone.
"Please... a little quieter... Aryan will wake up..." Mother whispers.
Those words pierce my ears like molten lead. My mother—who once used to polish my father's victory medals with such devotion—has been sold to our poverty. After my father's boxing career ended, the death-grip of gambling and addiction consumed everything. Now, the money for our three daily meals comes at the cost of my mother's sacrifice—a thought that makes me want to wash my own blood away.
Father suddenly laughed, a hideous sound. In his drunken state, his laugh doesn't sound human; it's like the roar of a beast.
"You hear that, Aryan?" Father staggered toward me. I felt nauseous from the pungent stench of alcohol on his breath. "The money is coming! Don't we need to buy your school uniform tomorrow? We're getting a good collection tonight. Your mother... look at how much your mother is doing for us, see?"
I said nothing. My hands gripped the bedsheet so hard the skin on my palms began to tear. Should I slap my father? Should I break down the door to the other room and drag that animal out?
But I know I can't. If I stop them today, our stove won't burn tomorrow. There won't be money for Father's liquor. My school fees won't be paid. This ruthless helplessness is eating me from the inside out.
I began to laugh. In the darkness, my laugh sounded more terrifying than my father's. I laughed while salty tears streamed down my cheeks.
"Yes, Father, a lot of money is coming," I whispered. "So much money that one day I will buy this entire city. And then... I will burn it all down."
Father coughed again. Thick clots of blood splattered onto the table with his dry cough. His lungs are gone. He is nothing but a ruin now. He opened the bottle cap again.
I looked at the wall. A pair of old, rusted boxing gloves hung there—the sole witness to my father's golden days. I got off the bed, feeling the chill of the floor on my bare feet. I took the gloves in my hands. The leather was cracked, the stuffing spilling out. But the moment I held them, a strange power surged through my body.
I put the gloves on and threw a few punches into the dark void. Woosh... woosh...
The sound of cutting through the air. Father's training is etched into the marrow of my bones. I may be in Grade 8, but the power of my punch is no less than that of a grown man. Father taught me exactly which point to hit to shatter bone into dust.
"Whoever is on the other side," I muttered, "I don't know his name. But he is buying my mother's dignity. I won't kill him today. But the day I do, there will be no way back for him."
The night grew deeper. The sounds in the other room ceased. A moment later, the door opened. The sound of heavy boots faded down the corridor. Mother came out. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes swollen. As she passed by me, I closed my eyes. I couldn't look at her.
Mother placed her hand on my head. Her hand was trembling. "You have to wake up early, Aryan. I've ironed your uniform. Go to sleep, son."
I heard the tone of her voice. That familiar tenderness, now shrouded in a heap of darkness. I didn't answer.
January 1st, 7:00 AM.
I am standing in front of the school gates. Central High School. I am surrounded by glittering cars and the scent of expensive perfumes. But in my nostrils, the smell of last night's liquor and the taste of salt still linger.
Students are laughing. Everyone is celebrating the New Year. I am wearing a cheap fabric uniform, brought by my mother at the cost of her own body.
Walking down the corridor, I felt every eye on me. Eyes of mockery. Eyes of hatred.
"Look, look! A beggar's son has entered our school!" a boy shouted. He held an expensive iPhone. Beside him, his beautiful girlfriend giggled.
His name is likely Shaon. A senior from Grade 10. The unofficial king of this school. Shaon came and stood before me. He slammed his expensive shoe down hard on my foot.
"So? A new import? Which alley did you crawl out of?" Shaon smirked.
I kept my head down. I could have broken his jaw with a left hook right then and there. But I stopped myself. The monster born inside me last night was screaming—Wait, Aryan. Just hitting them isn't enough; you have to erase their very existence.
"What's your name?" Shaon grabbed my collar.
"Aryan," I said calmly.
"Aryan? Hah! An expensive name. But it doesn't suit a cheap brat like you. From today, your name is 'Dog.' Got it?" Shaon spat on my face.
The entire corridor erupted in laughter. I clenched the twenty-taka note my mother had given me in my pocket. My heart is no longer trembling. It has become a silent volcano.
Just then, someone walked through the crowd. The blue file in her hand shimmered in the sunlight. Sara.
She stood in front of Shaon. "Shaon, stop it. What are you doing with a new kid?"
Sara looked at me. There was no pity in her eyes. There was a kind of mysterious darkness, as if she could see the monster inside me.
I looked into Sara's eyes. At first sight, I knew—this girl would either be the cause of my destruction or my salvation.
The New Year began.
The sun is rising outside. But the sky of my world is as black as it was last night. I am Aryan. The son of a retired boxer. The son of a prostitute. But from today, I am the greatest nightmare of every injustice in this school and this city.
Blood will spill. And that blood begins here, at Central High.