In this world, suicide is not an option. Killing yourself will only end in your own demise, but somehow even worse than the first time.
...People like me...
...The poor...
Us... The ones with no reason to live.
The ones that only desire to be gone...
We don't get that luxury.
...Not here...
The air is filled with so much toxin shit that The Vicarion, the ruling body of Calthera, came down to the slums to say
"Stay safe."
Pieces of shit.
"Vey!" A soft voice calls out to me.
I look up to see a girl. A girl that I know. The only girl I know. Her auburn hair tied back with a violet ribbon, waving in the dim light of the sun. Her soft face makes me feel slightly better about my unfortunate existence. She looks at me with the biggest, chestnut eyes.
"Huh? Oh... Myla. Hey," I respond in a low voice.
"Sooooo, whatcha doin today?"
"Starving..."
"Again?"
"Privilege gets you food. I have neither privilege nor food."
She stays quiet a beat, thinking, then finally asks,
"You can come to my house. My mom went and bought some carrion meat. I'm sure she'll feed you."
"You come here every day. All the way from the rich part of town... Well, city. But still. Every day. For what?" I ask.
She pauses, then looks me dead in the eyes and grins like it's obvious.
"For you silly!"
"For me?"
"For you!"
"...For me?..."
"For you. You're blushing by the way."
I turn away, face hot.
This is embarrassing. Why won't she just go away? Giving me false hope. Damn tiny woman. Ah, who am I kidding. She could never like someone like me. I'm poor, she's rich. Complete opposites.
My thoughts break with the ring of her phone.
She's got a phone. I wonder who she's talking to.
My stomach grumbles.
"I'm hungry," I mumble.
As Myla talks on the phone, I stare at the cracked pavement, counting seconds until the next hunger pang.
Then it happens.
Three guys shout for Myla. She ends the call and says, "I have to go somewhere. I'll be back."
Her face loses light. That was jarring. But my mind stays on my empty gut and the three guys walking toward me. They're looking for trouble. I'm the target. Myla runs off.
Great, I think.
"Tch, she left. Well..." The middle guy sneers.
"What do you want now, Ezra?" I say, trying to sound braver than I feel.
His face twists. Contorted with disgust.
"What did I tell you about saying my name?" he spits.
I'm squatting. Lucky.
Thud.
The kick hits my ribs.
The air leaves my lungs.
I double over, gasping.
Again.
Pain shoots through me like broken glass.
"Trash like you should die," one says.
"Bet you won't last the night," another says.
I want to disappear. To sink into nothing.
What's the point? Why fight?
Every hit chips away at me.
My head spins.
My body aches.
But they keep going.
I want it to stop.
When they finally walk away, I'm barely holding together.
"Dumb bitch," I mutter.
Still losing. Still broken.
Minutes drag by.
Then footsteps come.
Slow. Deliberate.
Some backwater doctor finds me again.
He wears a mask and a long white trench coat.
I never see his face.
"Come on, Vey. I told you to fight back," he says.
His voice is flat, like I'm some stray dog he's tired of feeding.
I don't respond.
I stare at the cracked concrete beneath me.
My ribs burn.
Inside, something colder wakes.
He kneels beside me, pulling out a worn pack of bandages.
His hands work precise, silent.
I want to hate him for being the only one who bothers.
For pitying me without saying it.
He wraps the worst wounds tight.
Then pulls a small vial from his coat pocket.
Dark liquid swirls inside.
"This will help with the pain."
I shake my head. No words.
He sighs, frustrated but unsurprised.
"You're gonna die if you don't take care of yourself."
I want to tell him I don't care. That I'm done.
But the words stick in my throat.
"Why do you care?" I finally whisper.
He looks at me then. Eyes hidden behind his mask.
"Because I've been where you are. And I know how it feels when the world tells you you're nothing."
I want to believe him but I'm numb.
He leans closer.
"You're stronger than you think."
I don't know if that's a lie or a curse.
Then a sharp pulse shoots through my right arm.
The bonecord flares beneath my skin.
Cold and tight like ice gripping bone.
Pain explodes across my nerves.
I clench my teeth.
He watches quietly.
When it fades, I stare at my arm like it's a stranger.
"This... this is only gonna kill me," I say.
He nods.
"Yeah. If you let it."
...
I sit there for a while.
Might've been five minutes. Might've been thirty. No one keeps track in the slums.
My body still hurts.
Breathing is like dragging razors through my chest. Ribs are probably cracked. Jaw feels loose. Vision's blurry on one side.
It doesn't really matter.
Pain's just background noise now.
The doc didn't even stick around to check if I was good. Guess he figured I'd either get up or die. Either option saves him time.
I pull myself to my feet. It's slow. Pathetic. I use the wall like a crutch. My left leg doesn't like holding weight, but I force it to.
Not like I have a backup body.
I limp down the alley.
A rat watches me from a pile of trash. Doesn't move. Just blinks slow. I stare back.
We probably have the same outlook on life.
There's a puddle near the alley exit. Smells like piss and chemicals. My reflection's floating in it, cracked and stretched. I look like someone halfway through decomposing. Lips split. Blood dried under my nose. Shirt torn. Ribs purple.
Still not the worst I've looked.
I keep moving.
The streets are quieter now. Most people already scavenged what they could and went back into whatever hole they crawl out of at night.
I don't have a hole.
My place is barely a room. Just rusted sheet metal and mold. Doesn't even have a door. No lock. No protection.
But it's what I've got.
I head there.
One step at a time.
Each step hurts, but hunger hurts more.
I pass by the butcher's again.
Window's fogged. Smells like something died in there and no one bothered cleaning it. Could be carrion meat. Could be real meat. Could be someone that got chopped up. Doesn't matter.
I'd eat all three.
I press my hand against my stomach.
It growls like it's pissed off at me.
I think about Myla's offer.
Carrion meat. Her mom buying extra. A warm meal in a clean room. Maybe a bath. Maybe sleep without coughing up soot.
It feels like a trap.
But not the kind with sharp teeth. Just the kind that gets your hopes up so it can crush them later.
Still...
I kind of want to go.
Even if she pities me.
Even if she's lying.
Even if it's just leftovers.
It's food.
And food is the only reason I keep breathing.
My head spins again. I lean against a wall. Eyes shut. Everything goes dim for a second.
The Bonecord pulses.
Right arm. Tight and cold. It coils just under the skin like it's burrowing deeper.
I breathe through the pain. It fades.
Then I keep walking.
I don't know where I'm going now. Not really.
Maybe her place.
Maybe my hole.
Maybe I drop in the street and let the Reapers carry me off like garbage.
Honestly?
Doesn't make a difference.
Not to me.