For the first twenty-three years of his life, Jason was unremarkable. He held a steady job, had a wife, and even an apartment. A life, it seemed, he had always wanted.
Then, one day, he walked in on his wife sleeping with another man.
The divorce took several agonizing weeks to finalize. He lost nearly everything in the process, save for the apartment. Bank accounts were split, possessions gone. "She took everything," he thought, the words a bitter echo in his dingy apartment. One day he had everything, the next, nothing at all.
He sat alone for hours, tears giving way to a seething anger at her betrayal. Eventually, exhaustion claimed him, and he fell asleep in his chair. His job, working for a large office company whose name he could barely recall, was as unremarkable as he was. The only thing that ever stood out about Jason was his upbringing – neither rich nor poor, from a family that ran a successful tech company.
Jason woke with a jolt, the memory of his night hitting him like a cold wave. "I really need to get out of this place," he muttered, the thought echoing hollowly. There was nothing left for him here but bad memories. "Everything here reminds me of her," he thought, and a fresh surge of anger flared in his chest.
He didn't give the rage a chance to quell. He seized the chair he'd slept on and hurled it across the room. It slammed into his TV, impaling itself.
"Shit," he cursed, the realization of what he'd done crashing over him. She was coming today to get her half of the furniture. And now, he'd have to foot the bill for the broken TV. "She's already taking most of my money with her, and now I have to pay for this too!" he shouted, the words thick with frustration.
"Screw it." He walked into the bedroom, took a quick shower, and looked at his reflection. Average. Not the most fit, but undeniably average. He shaved, pulled on fresh clothes, and headed for the door. "Fuck this place," he thought, the sentiment a final, bitter taste in his mouth as he slammed the door behind him.
On his way down the stairs, his phone vibrated in his pocket. 'Lora' the caller ID read. "Of course," he thought, his jaw tightening.
"Yeah," he managed, his voice flat.
"Look, I know you hate me, but I need to get my stuff! You can't keep ignoring everything! If you don't let me, I will call the cops!" her voice crackled through the phone.
Jason looked at the screen and promptly hung up. He was too tired, too angry to deal with her. Anything he said would only make it worse. He'd deal with it later.
Stepping outside, the cold November air bit at him. He noticed the heavy grey clouds overhead. "Even the world knows," he murmured to himself. His phone began to ring again; he knew it was her. He ignored it and started walking down the street. Lost in his self-pity, he didn't notice the man walking slowly behind him, eyeing him intently.
The man closed the distance, grabbing Jason's arm. "Give me your wallet!" he shouted.
That was the final straw. "Fuck you! I don't have to give you shit!" Jason roared, his voice cracking with all the pent-up frustration and pain of the last few weeks.
He didn't get another word out. A searing pain shot up from his stomach. He looked down, stunned, as red blood began to bloom on his shirt. "The fuck?" Then, the man's arm moved again, stabbing him once more, and then again.
Jason's fleeting thoughts were a grim summary: "What a shit week, and this is how it ends. By a mugger". As darkness consumed him, he felt nothing, noticed nothing, as the mugger snatched his phone and wallet.