My name is Adrian. I'm twenty-eight years old, and I am the most average guy you will ever meet.
I'm single. I wouldn't call myself antisocial, but I've never been the center of attention in any group either. I work at the airport in New York City — close to planes, but never in the cockpit. My dream was to become a pilot, like my father and my older brother. Somewhere along the way, I lost the motivation for that. For pretty much everything, really.
Don't get me wrong. My life isn't bad. My family has its issues, but what family doesn't? I live with my parents again. I had moved out once, but being the youngest, I think they never really wanted to let me go, and after a year they pushed me to come back. I didn't fight it. My brother and sisters rarely visit anymore, and I felt bad for the old folks. I'd already tasted independence; I figured I could give it up.
I miss it sometimes. You win some, you lose some.
Lately, though, I just feel empty. I tell myself everything will change once I finally become a pilot. But every morning it gets harder to get out of bed — to go to work, or to do anything at all.
I've become something of a hermit.
It was still dark when my alarm went off.
Half asleep, I fumbled for my phone. Six o'clock.
"Ugh. Forgot to turn you off," I groaned.
Then I saw the date. Sunday. My day off.
Well, I was awake now. Might as well get an early start on the light novel I was reading. I took a quick shower and settled into my little sanctuary in the corner of my room: gaming chair, ashtray, cigarettes, and an ice-cold cola. I opened the reading app on my phone and sighed with satisfaction.
This was why rest days were the best. No work messages. No rushing out the door.
A knock on the door. My mother.
"You're already at that damn book this early?" she said, exasperated.
"Obviously," I replied, without looking up.
"Well, breakfast is ready. Come down and eat."
I headed downstairs. A plate of pancakes and bacon was waiting on the table, and my eyes lit up. I didn't waste a second.
"Delicious as always, Mom."
"I'm glad you like it," she said, giggling. "Now hurry up and find yourself a girl so I can teach her to cook all your favorites. Picky as you are, you'll be in trouble without one."
Oh no. Here we go again.
She'd been pestering me about a girlfriend for two or three years now, and I was tired of explaining that I'd given up on the idea. My love life had left some bad scars, and I wasn't going to date someone just for the sake of it. If I was going to spend my life with one woman, and only her, I needed to truly love her.
I hated disloyalty. I had friends with girlfriends and "special friends" on the side, and I couldn't stand it. If you want to sleep around, don't get into a relationship — it's less trouble for everyone. And in my experience, women weren't any better. Everyone talked about loyalty; hardly anyone practiced it.
Maybe that was bitterness talking. Maybe it was just experience. Lately, I couldn't tell the difference.
I noticed my mother staring at me.
"Don't get your hopes up," I said with a smile, then quickly carried my plate to the sink and fled upstairs.
A couple of hours later, I noticed some unread messages. Most were from my friends' group chat, arguing about the shooter they all played. I didn't play with them. I was terrible at FPS games, and they only frustrated me. Give me an RPG or a strategy game any day — nothing beats a good old fantasy story.
I had nothing to add, so I left them on read.
There was also a message from Mary.
Good morning!
I sighed, but I answered anyway.
Mary and I had dated six years ago. One day, she simply didn't show up to our date. Later she told me she'd gone to a friend's party and forgotten. I wasn't angry that she went out. I was angry that she didn't tell me — I'd canceled other plans to see her. And when I called her out, she did what everyone does when they're held accountable: she deflected.
I ended it that day. If she could forget me that easily, there was nothing to talk about.
Now, six years later, she wanted to try again. I'd told her we could stay friends, nothing more. I'd even told her plainly that I wasn't attracted to her. She kept trying anyway.
My phone buzzed again.
What are you doing today? Let's meet up!
Reading. Don't feel like going out.
Then let's meet up soon!
OK.
That afternoon, I went for a run. I might have given up on finding a girlfriend, but I refused to become a fat shut-in. A fit shut-in, at least.
After an hour at the park, I bought an orange juice from a stand and went looking for a place to sit. As I approached the benches, I spotted trouble.
Sitting there was a woman I'd had the displeasure of meeting before.
It had happened one night during a late run. I'd found her on that same bench, crying. Talking to women I don't know isn't exactly my strong suit, but my conscience wouldn't let me walk past someone in tears. So I bought two sodas from a vending machine and went over.
"Hey, are you okay?" I held one out to her. If I were in her place, I'd want someone to give a damn.
Apparently, that was just me.
She narrowed her red, swollen eyes. "You disgusting creep! Are you stalking me? You men are all the same! You see me here, vulnerable, and think you can swoop in and seduce me?!"
My brain blanked. Seduce her? With a soda? Even I knew that would be pathetic.
Before I could answer, she snatched the can from my hand and emptied it over my head.
Now I was angry. Very angry.
"What the hell is wrong with you? I came over because you were crying! I thought some sugar might cheer you up!"
"Oh, sure. You wanted to give me some sugar, huh?" she sneered. "What was the plan? Buy me a soda, ask for my number, take me to dinner and pray you'd get lucky tonight? Pervert!"
I was stunned by her confidence.
She was gorgeous, I'll admit: not very tall, brown hair, blue eyes, a nice figure, and a voice that would've been attractive if not for the garbage coming out of it. It's funny — when you hear someone crying, you don't stop to size them up. Only now did I notice.
None of it mattered. My kindness had been twisted into something ugly, and I wasn't going to stand for it.
"Look, lady. I just wanted to be a gentleman and ask if you were okay. But now I'm pretty sure that whatever happened to you, you had it coming — with an ego like that."
I turned and left.
I didn't see her face, but I heard her footsteps right behind me.
"So you're a coward too, besides being a pervert? Why are you running?"
I laughed. "I came over to see if you were in trouble. Since you're clearly not, I have zero interest in listening to any more of your BS. Have a nice night."
I flashed her a smile and walked away. Judging by her expression, no man had ever spoken to her like that. Beautiful people always get treated nicely, even when they're being awful. But not by me. If someone gives me shit for no reason, there are consequences.
And now here she was. Same bench.
I tried to turn around, but it was too late. She'd spotted me.
Her eyes narrowed. "So you are stalking me."
"Hardly. I live nearby. You don't need to be the brightest bulb to see I'm exercising."
I sat at the opposite end of the bench. She looked surprised; she probably hadn't expected me to sit.
"Before you say anything: no, I don't want your number. I don't need your name. I'm not trying to get to know you, and I'm certainly not trying to seduce you."
I stared at her coldly. This was the woman who'd poured a soda over my head.
"You say that, but here you are, sitting next to me."
"Only because this is the best spot to rest. Pay me no mind, and I'll do the same."
So there we sat, ignoring each other. I took out my phone to escape the awkward silence.
That's when she spoke.
"So... are you gay or something?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?!"
People turned to look. I clapped a hand over my mouth.
"Just because I'm not trying to court you doesn't mean I'm gay," I hissed. "Are you dumb or something?"
"Court me?" She giggled. "Who even says that?"
"Shut up." My face burned. I stood and walked off, crossing the street as fast as I could.
I'd just reached the other side when I heard her shout.
"Hey, wait! I just wanted to say I'm—"
I turned to tell her to stop following me. She was already in the street, crossing without looking.
And a truck was coming.
Then I made the worst decision of my life.
I didn't think. I ran, and I shoved her out of the way.
The truck managed to stop. Its cargo didn't. Construction materials flew loose from the back, and three steel rods ran me through.
The pain was like nothing I had ever felt. Blood poured out of me. My brain scrambled to process every signal my body was screaming at once — and every feeling, too.
Anger at the girl, for crossing without looking.
Anger at myself, the idiot who ran to save a stranger.
Sadness, knowing I was dying.
Regret, at dying before my parents.
And relief.
It was over. My empty, unfulfilling life was ending. No more worrying that I'd accomplished nothing I set out to do. No more worrying about being such a mediocre son. No more worrying about the future, because in a couple of minutes, at best, there wouldn't be one.
I managed to open my eyes. The girl was kneeling beside me, crying, saying something. I couldn't hear her anymore.
I didn't feel the pain anymore either. I was just tired. I wanted to sleep.
Then I heard it. A voice I couldn't possibly ignore.
You really were born in the wrong era, little boy. Relax. Don't fight anymore. Just sleep.
What was that? My mind raced for an explanation. Was that crying girl insulting me, even now, after I'd saved her life?
No. That wasn't her voice.
Then I heard it again — a whisper that sent a chill through my entire body.
Sleep. Let yourself drift into the deep.
And just like that, the last of my strength left me.
I was dead.