I was thirteen the first time they broke something in me that wouldn't heal.
It started the way most tragedies do—not with violence, but silence.
I was the quiet kid. The one who didn't talk much, didn't smile unless prompted. I wasn't special. Not ugly, not handsome, not rich or poor. I simply… was. My name didn't matter back then. It was just another label for someone nobody really saw.
But they did.
The ones who needed a target.
It began with a stolen notebook, ripped to shreds and tossed out a window. Then a shove in the hallway. A trip on the stairs. Laughter that wasn't with me but at me. It was always the same five boys—sons of wealthy men, golden boys whose parents were friends with the school board.
At first, I told myself it would pass.
But it didn't.
Because I made the mistake of flinching.
They saw it. And once they did, they never stopped.
By the time I was fourteen, the bruises were daily. They used words like weapons—"rat," "roach," "waste of air"—and beatdowns like rituals. They never hit me where it would show. One of them even told me, smirking, "If you tell, we'll make your brother dance off a roof."
I didn't tell.
I just stopped talking altogether.
I'd go home and lie to my little brother, Cale, tell him school was "fine." That I slipped on the stairs. That I forgot my lunch, not that they threw it in the toilet. He was only twelve. Too bright. Too kind. I didn't want him to ever know this kind of world.
He knew anyway.
Because the day I turned sixteen, they went after him too.
They cornered him after school, said I was a freak, and freaks must run in the family. They shoved him, mocked his voice, told him their dads would "make sure his was next." My brother was strong, in his way. Smarter than me. Quieter. But even glass breaks if you hit it hard enough.
One day, I came home and found him sitting in the dark. I asked him what was wrong. He said nothing. Just hugged me like he knew something I didn't.
Two weeks later, he jumped off the school rooftop.
I never heard him scream.
Just the silence afterward.
My mother broke the day of the funeral. She didn't cry—she just stopped speaking. Her eyes lost their shine, and her lungs got weaker by the month. She died less than a year later. Some said pneumonia. Some said heartbreak.
I knew the truth.
The grief killed her. The same grief they gave us.
Then they went after my father.
They planted drugs in his car. Called in a tip. A crooked cop—a friend of their father—"found" them and made the arrest. He was sentenced to seven years. Innocent. Powerless. I remember the last time I visited him. He was behind a glass wall, gray in the beard, eyes haunted.
He said, "I should've protected you boys. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough."
I didn't know what to say.
Because by then, neither was I.
I dropped out of school at seventeen. Got a job in construction. Worked twelve-hour shifts, six days a week. My body hardened, my voice grew coarse, and my eyes learned not to look people in the eye.
The boys who ruined me? They thrived.
One became a lawyer.
Another an actor.
The ringleader—the one who started it all—went into politics. A "rising star," they called him. A real people's man.
And me?
I was just a shadow, dragging my pain across the years, like a rusted chain hooked through my spine.
At forty-eight, a beam collapsed on-site. Crushed my shoulder, tore the muscles in my back. I couldn't lift anymore. Couldn't pass a medical. Just like that, I was laid off.
The bills didn't stop. The rent came due. I sold everything I owned. Lived in shelters. Then in alleys.
I stopped looking in mirrors. I didn't like what looked back. My hands shook too much. My teeth were falling out.
Winter hit harder than usual that year. Snow like razors. Wind like knives. The food banks were empty. My bones hurt like they'd forgotten what warmth was.
But the worst pain?
The memory.
I'd lie awake at night, shaking in a pile of cardboard, thinking about Cale. I'd see his smile—bright, brave, like the world hadn't ruined us yet. And I'd hear the soft snap of his neck in my nightmares, over and over again.
I saw my mom's last breath, her fingers twitching as I called for help that never came.
I saw my dad's eyes, behind that glass wall, full of shame.
And I saw them.
Those five boys.
No. Men. Untouchable. Untouchable and thriving.
They were the reason my family was gone. The reason I was sleeping next to rats, pissing blood, coughing up filth, dying unnamed in a forgotten street.
And they were still smiling in photos, shaking hands with governors, sipping wine with celebrities.
Why?
That night, I had nothing left.
I hadn't eaten in three days. My legs didn't work. My fingers were frostbitten. I couldn't even feel the blade when it slid into my gut.
I just gasped.
Looked up at a sky I no longer recognized. Cold stars blinking back like uncaring gods.
The man who stabbed me didn't even rob me. There was nothing to take.
He just looked at me—like I was already dead—and walked away.
I lay there, blood soaking the filthy pavement, chest rising slower with each breath. I wasn't afraid.
Just… tired.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of pain.
Tired of being me.
I stared up at the stars and whispered, "If there's anything out there… if there's anything listening—give me a chance. Let me do it over. Let me burn them. Let me take everything from them, the way they took everything from me."
I laughed—hoarse, cracked.
A breathless sound from a hollow throat.
"If I ever get the chance… I'll tear them down. I swear it."
My breath caught.
The stars began to blur.
My vision dimmed.
Then everything stopped.
Darkness.
Then—
Breath.
Sharp. Alive.
I choked, sat up, heart racing.
My hand shot to my stomach.
No wound.
I looked around.
My room.
Old posters on the wall. A scratched desk. The faded calendar on the wall said: August, 20XX.
My phone buzzed.
It was my brother.
Cale:"Yo, wanna grab some chips before school? I'm starving."
My legs buckled.
I fell to the floor, shaking.
He was alive.
He was alive.
And I was fifteen again.
They don't know I'm back.
They don't know I remember everything.
But I do.
And this time…
This time, I'll make them wish I stayed dead.