Hard work brings achievement," they said. "Hard work beats talent," they said. Bullshit. Utter, steaming bullshit. Was I really that dumb? Did I actually believe that grinding would pay off? Sure, I had the trophies—academic accolades, sports medals, debate victories—yet here I was, a goddamn husk, rotting in a filthy apartment. Junk food wrappers littered the floor, and the sun, that bastard, never dared to penetrate my grimy windows. Twenty-three years old, and I hadn't bothered with college, hadn't held a real job. Just anime, video games, and the dwindling allowance my parents sent.
The irony? All my "achievements" were relics of high school. Top student turned bottom-feeding parasite, waiting for handouts. What a joke.
A growl from my stomach reminded me of my neglect. "Fine, fine," I muttered, hauling myself off the stained mattress, "I'll feed you, you ungrateful bastard." I checked my wallet. "Twenty bucks. Sweet. I'm practically rolling in it."
Night had fallen, thankfully. No judging eyes, no harsh sunlight to expose my disheveled state. I shuffled towards the nearest grocery store, my dirty shirt clinging to my skin, my face a map of grime. I grabbed a few ramen cups and a bottle of water, a pathetic attempt at sustenance.
Leaving the store, I almost felt a flicker of contentment. Almost. Then—
*POW*
A searing pain ripped through the back of my knee, the force sending me crashing to the pavement. "Fucking hell!" I screamed, the pain a white-hot agony. The bullet, I realized, had shattered my kneecap. Two a.m., and the streets were deserted. No one to hear my agony.
*Robbery? Hit? Kidnapping?* My mind raced, a frantic animal trapped in a cage. *Seriously? This is how I go? Over ramen?*
The shooters stood over me, their faces a mask of panicked youth.
"Shit! I thought it was empty!" The shooter's voice was a high-pitched squeak of terror. His friends were a blur of jittery movement, their eyes wide with fear. *My knee...it's shattered. I'm going to puke.*
"Just...just finish him," one of them stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "He'll tell the cops."
A chilling silence descended, broken only by my ragged breaths. They hesitated, then nodded, one by one. The shooter raised the gun, his hand shaking.
*This is it. My fault. For being lazy, for letting lust consume me, for talking back to my parents. Now, I'm alone, dying on the street. What a goddamn waste.*
My eyes locked onto the shooter's, a resigned acceptance settling over me. *Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Sis, Bro. I wish I could say it face to face. At least I won't have to pay rent anymore.*
The trigger pulled. Darkness swallowed me whole.