"The pretense of fairness was created by God to make the living equal. However, humans changed that," a certain being once said.
---
"Is it wrong to be average?" a boy thought to himself. Every being was born into their own circumstances. Some of those lives did not need a genius or someone extraordinary. However, some did. They needed to be better. But why was that?
A small laugh escaped his throat—if one could even call it a laugh. It was more of a desperate cry from his dry lips.
"Hard work, huh? Bullshit. It's just pity masked in kindness." The words spat out of his mouth in anger.
"This life of mine. What is the actual point?" he thought. He had seen others achieve only what he hoped to dream of. He wanted what they had—the grades, the praise, the smiles—for himself.
He did want to be great.
He wanted to!
But the world was not forgiving. Reality was cruel. What had that man once said? Ah, yes: as long as the concepts of winners exist, the losers will too.
"It seems like I'm part of the losers." The boy who once stared at the sky no longer did. God, huh? What god?
All he ever did was chase something he never even wanted. He endured because choice was not meant for people like him. Maybe he was making excuses. Maybe he was just taking out his anger. But in the end, he just didn't care anymore.
No family to support him, no one to love him. Just a name, whispered by a dying woman who had brought him into this world.
"My mother. Oh, how I would love to meet you," the boy whispered, sitting next to his mother's grave.
And his father? Did he even exist? He could not remember. He was scum anyway.
The boy looked at himself in the reflection of a puddle nearby. His disheveled hair hung long over his face.
Trash. Waste. Scum. A rape child. That was what he thought of himself. He knew it already. The people at the orphanage had told him so. After all, his so-called father had raped his mother and run away.
He was just a discarded thing.
With no way out, studying had been his only hope. And, lo and behold, he was just awful at it.
"Is this how I'm meant to live my life?" the boy thought, walking away.
The rain fell endlessly, soaking the pavement and drenching him. Streams flooded into the gutters like veins fueling the planet.
But Vergil—he stood still, looking up as the rain dripped into his eyes and mouth. His brown eyes, once bright with hope, had dimmed to mere embers.
There was only one grave left to visit. His orphan friends—dead or gone. Vergil finally released the emotion that had long been clawing at him.
It's lonely, he thought. Tears spilled down his cheeks, mingling with the rain.
This world had broken him. The hope he once carried was a fallacy, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Inside, he was already dead. His patience had reached its limits.
Yet he persisted nonetheless. Was it out of fear of death? Or was it simple refusal to admit defeat to fate itself?
And yet, the thought of death… it made him feel strangely at peace.
Then—out of nowhere—a gloved hand clamped over his mouth.
Vergil's eyes widened as he twisted, searching for anyone nearby. But there was no one.
It was too late.
A sharp pain flared at the base of his neck. A needle emptied its contents into his veins.
He thrashed violently, gasping, struggling with all his might. But the drug coursed through his body like wildfire.
His vision dimmed. Blackness swallowed him.
---
Vergil's consciousness flickered open. His vision was distorted, fogged, as if he were peering through thick glass.
He lay flat on a cold slab, every muscle heavy and unresponsive. Leather straps bit into his wrists and ankles, binding him tight. Above, the ceiling was a harsh, blinding white, fractured by shadows of figures moving nearby.
Doctors? No—these people in masks were surgeons, but not the kind he had once dreamed of becoming. He couldn't understand what was truly happening.
A voice cut from his left.
"Boss, the boy's awake."
Vergil turned his head, his eyes blurring in and out of focus. Panic rose in his chest.
Another voice, cold and clinical, rattled off details like a dictionary.
"Sir, his organs are in excellent condition. His blood matches the client's needs. Liver, kidney, and heart are all viable. We can sell the rest for extra cash."
A low, cruel chuckle echoed. Then came the words that froze his blood:
"Well, if we can't find the father to pay us back… the son's organs will do just fine."
The man known as "Boss" leaned close, his lips curling into a cruel smile.
"Your father ran. Pathetic. But you… you will serve as payment."
Vergil wanted to scream, but at this point, he could hardly care. His life had been in ruins already. And yet, from somewhere deep inside, laughter broke free.
Wild. Broken. Hysterical.
The surgeons glanced at each other, unsettled.
"Is he retarded, or is his brain just messed up?" one muttered.
"He won't be for long," another replied, raising a syringe.
The Boss sneered. "Keep him awake. Let him feel it. Blame only your father for what comes next."
A searing pain lanced down Vergil's spine. The injection gripped his body, numbing him. His limbs refused to move.
He felt everything—the scalpel's cold kiss against his flesh, the vibrations of the saw tearing into his ribs.
Kill me… The plea formed silently in his mind. His lips would not move. His voice never came.
Let me die.
But death did not come quickly.
He could only watch as they cut him open, piece by piece. His heartbeat slowed. The world blurred.
"No… stop." His fragile thoughts echoed into the void.
But there was no answer.
Only silence. And the steady drip of blood."The pretence of fairness was created by god to make the living equal. However, humans changed that." A certain being once said.
---------
"Is it wrong to be average?" A boy thought to himself. Every being is born into their circumstances. Some of which don't need a genius or someone extraordinary. However some do
A small laugh came from my throat. If somebody couldn't even call it a laugh. It was more of a desperate cry from my dry throat.
"Hard work, huh. Bulshit. It's just pity masked in kindness." The words spat out of my mouth in anger.
"This life of mine. What is the actual point?" he thought to himself. He had seen others achieve only what he hopes to dream of. He wanted what they had. The grades. The praises and the smiles for himself
I do want to be great.
I want to!
But this world isn't as forgiving. Reality is cruel. What words that the man say? Ah, yes, "as long as the concepts of winners exist. The losers will too."
"It seems like I'm part of the losers," the boy who once stared at the sky, no longer did. God huh. What god.
All I ever did was chase something I never even wanted. I endured because choice isn't meant for people like me. Maybe I'm making excuses for myself. Maybe I'm just taking my anger out. I just don't care anymore
No family to support or even love me
Just a name, whispered by a dying woman who brought me into this world.
"My mother. Oh how I would love to meet you," the boy whispered sitting next to his mother's grave
and my father.... did he even exist? I can remember. He was scum anyway.
The boy looked at himself in the reflection of a small puddle nearby. dishevelled and long hair
'Trash. Waste. Scum... A rape child' The boy thought to himself. Yeah, he knew it himself. The people at the orphanage said so. After all, my so-called father raped my mom and ran away.
I'm just a discarded... thing.
With no way out. Studying was my only hope. and lo and behold, I was just shit at it.
'Is this how I'm meant to live my life?' the boy thought to himself, before walking away. The rain fell endlessly, soaking the pavement and the boy.
The streams flooded into the gutters like veins, fueling the planet.
But Vergil?
He stood still, looking up as the rain dripped into his eyes and mouth. His brown eyes, lit with a firm resolution, had been culled and dimmed to mere embers of their former glory.
Only one grave to visit.
His orphan friends. Dead or left. Vergil then finally released an emotion that was revealing itself
'It's lonely,' he thought. Tears were pouring down, mixing with the rain that was still soaking him.
This world had broken him both physically and mentally. The hope he once had was just a fallacy. Now he was dead inside. His patience had reached its limits.
Yet he persisted nonetheless. Was it out of the fear of death, or refusing to admit defeat against the fate that put him here? But the thought of death made him relax for some unknown reason
Then out of nowhere, a hand.
Covered in cloves and covered his mouth
His eyes widened, trying to look for anybody nearby. But nothing
It was too late.
A sharp pain bloomed at the base of his neck. A needle, emptying its contents into his veins
He thrashed violently, gasping. Struggling with all his might
But the drug coursed through his body like a wildfire
His vision was fading into black.
---
Vergil's consciousness flickered open. His vision distorted, distant. the images appearing in his retina were as if he were observing through a thick fog.
He lay flat on a cold slab, every muscle heavy and unresponsive. Leather straps bit into his wrists and ankles, binding him tight. Above him, the ceiling was a harsh, blinding white, fractured by the trembling shadows of figures moving nearby.
His arms were restrained, lying flat on what seemed to be a table. His muscles wouldn't move. Leather straps buckled over him, binding him tight. Looking up was a blinding light, forcing him to narrow and avert his gaze.
Footsteps moved around him. People wearing masks. Doctors? No, the equipment they used resembled that used in surgeries. He had always wanted to be a surgeon. He couldn't understand what was truly happening
A voice cut from his left
"Boss, the boy's awake."
Vergil turned his head, but his eyes kept going in and out, distorting their faces as the panic began to rise in his chest
Another voice, cold and unsettling, spoke. Rattling of details like a dictionary. "Sir, his organs are in excellent condition. His blood matches the client's needs. Liver, kidney, and heart are all viable. We can sell the rest for extra cash."
A low, cruel chuckle echoed around him. Then words that froze his blood.
"Well, if we can't find the father to pay us back… the son's organs will do just fine."
A cruel and satisfying chuckle echoed from the man known as boss. "Since the father has ran away. Its necessary for the son to make up for it" The man teased as he whispered the words into Vergil's ears.
At this point, he just couldn't care less. His life was already in ruins before. Hell, finding a job was hard enough, yet something from inside wanted to speak out his true feelings.
His muscles that were unresponsive were starting to move, his mouth bursting into laughter. Wild and crazy. Hysterical and raw. The surgeons gave weird glances. Uneasy at the behaviour shown
"Is he a retard, or is his brain just fucked up?" one whispered.
"He won't be, for long anyway. another said, raising a syringe, ready to inject.
The boss leaned close, twisting into a cruel smile
"Keep him awake, let him feel it. You can blame only your father for what comes next."
Suddenly a searing pain shot down Vergil's spine, the injection gripping his body. Numbing and paralyzing him.
Nothing would move. His cries and begs for mercy. He felt all of it and so much more.
Along with the cold steel kissing his skin like a rose. The scalpel's edge showed no mercy. Then he heard it, the relentless buzz of the saw.
It tore into his ribcage. Each vibration rattled through his body like an earthquake, yet he lay still, trapped in the prison of pain in his flesh.
Kill me... The plea formed inside, silent and desperate. His lips wouldn't move. His voice never came.
'Let me die'
This was his only plea. yet it never came true
He could only look up as they carefully took out each organ
His heartbeat soon ceased to be. The light of the dark embraces his sight. The sounds that horrified him, the sights that made him anguish, faded away.
"No... stop." The words echoed inside his fragile mind.
One more chance. If only I...
The answer that came was the silence.