"The pretence of fairness was invented by God to make the living equal. Humans, however, changed that," The Absolute Being.
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"Is it wrong to be average?" His words echoed throughout the cemetery, The boy stood among the graves as lightning and rain bled from the sky.
It was never about money or status. Something deeper. A brightness that only some people are born with. That talent I didn't have.
"Why... why was it like this?" He blurted out unconsciously.
The question slipped out of his mouth, and it was a pointless one. Everyone else soared. Their grades, praises. It had cost them nothing while he had watched from the sidelines.
Their downturned eyes, pretending not to feel pity—All of it could go to hell.
All their pity and soft voices could go to hell. Their downturned eyes that looked down on him only made it worse.
And nothing would change that. Yet the thought of being in their place lingered on his mind.
'As long as the winners exist, the losers will too.' He remebred the words as they crawled back into his mind.
He glanced at the black sky, hoping for an answer. Only to find nothing. Yet, what remained of the lightning flickered through the storm, like a heart beating to keep itself alive.
"What God?"
At the end of each day, he was alone. The light at the end of the tunnel had never existed, and no warmth had ever embraced him.
Only a gravestone with a name eroded over the years.
"Oh, mother." His voice was silenced by the raindrops as his fingers brushed over the name.
"Would you hate me too... for being like this."
He wished she had lived. Wished she could be there for him, yet her name was only fading.
He brushed it more than usual, giving a small smile before sighing. He looked at a puddle reflecting his face in a distorted manner.
A frail young boy with dishevelled black hair starred back—dark circles covering his eyes. It was everything he didn't want to see
'Huh… trash.' The words left his mouth and pressed louder than the crackling thunder.
He laughed. A strangled, broken sound that the was only answered by rain, heavier, swallowing him whole.
For a moment, he had thought he heard something. A faint splash behind him. Was the rain playing tricks on him?
'Maybe I'm too tired.'
The footsteps drew closer. One step then silence. He turned, nothing. Then a breath against his ear.
A gloved hand covered his mouth. His body began jerking as his eyes widened.
The hiss of a needle bit into his neck. Fire raced through his veins as a heavy numbness spread through his limbs. Swallowing sight and sound. And finally, him whole.
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Eventually, his consciousness clawed its way back up, vision foggy as shapes bent and shifted with each blink.
He tried moving but his limbs were strapped. He lay flat on something colder.
Above him, a blinding light hummed as masked figures drifted past, their movements organised and deliberate.
For a moment, he thought they were doctors. But then came the clink of instruments on steel trays, and the stench of alcohol burned his nose. The figures observing him. And his hope turned into dread.
"Boss, he's awake." The voice was cold and flat, sounding bored.
He turned his head slowly, trembling. The muscles failing at doing a simple act, his chest squeezed as panic overtook his lungs. Wild and useless.
A masked surgeon spoke this time as flipping through a clipboard. "Organs intact. Blood type compatible. The heart, liver, and kidney were viable. The rest can be sold for extra cash."
The word compatible cut any hope he had left.
Two assistants chuckled from the shadows, their masked faces unreadable.
Mocking and mean. Then the words came out. "The father's debts pass to the son. So the balance must be restored."
The one called Boss leaned over, blocking the light. The smile he gave was all teeth and no warmth. "What a pathetic family. So it's only fair. It's good you're worth something."
Vergil's throat began tightening. He tried to scream. But for what purpose? Nobody there would save him. Then the sound came out again. Warped with laughter out of his throat.
Harsh, cracked and jagged. Enough to scare those present.
The surgeons hesitated, giving uneasy glances. "Is he broken or mentally insane?" one muttered.
"Doesn't matter," another spoke, lifting a syringe. The fluids gleamed under the light.
The boss flicked his fingers. "Keep the boy awake, think of it as a premium package. If you have someone to blame, he can curse the runaway father."
As the needle bit into his neck, liquid fire spilt into him. His spine was seized instantly, and his limbs sagged until they were numb.
The only thing that stayed was the sensation.
The scalpel touched his skin. His blood poured out slowly.
A saw shrieking against bone, its vibration rattling his body.
A thought ripped through him. He had always imagined dying on his own terms, quietly, at peace. But this… this was worse.
'A death lower than a dog… I can't accept it.'
Yet another thought overtook it.
'Stop... please.' The thought scraped his skull. But his lips were closed. Shut tight.
As the warmth spread beneath him, pooling and sticky against his back.
Badump. Badump.
And there it was, his own heart, each beat slower than the last, in the surgeon's hands as his vision faded away.
Yet despite all he suffered, he clung to one thought.
'I don't want to die. Not yet.'
For once, he wanted to be more than average. Even if it was just in his refusal to die.
But nothing answered.