The alarm clock never worked.
Rocky's eyes blinked open to the faint grey morning light creeping through his broken blinds. His small, messy apartment was silent — except for the soft creaks of the old building and the occasional distant car honk. He lay still on his thin mattress, staring at the ceiling stained with old watermarks.
Eighteen years old. Last year of high school. No parents, no family, no friends.
His parents had died in a car accident six years ago. He had no relatives. No one had taken him in, no one had checked on him — the world had simply moved on, and Rocky was left to survive on his own.
He slowly sat up, stretching his thin, bony arms, feeling every crack of his joints. His body was painfully skinny, with barely any muscle. His face, reflected faintly in the cracked window, looked hollow, pale, weak. He let out a long sigh.
"Another day of this shitty life," he muttered.
Dragging himself to the kitchen, he passed through the chaos of his apartment: clothes piled on chairs, empty instant noodle cups littering the floor, old newspapers stacked near the door. The place looked abandoned, half-destroyed, like no one cared — including him.
He opened the squeaky fridge and stared. Four eggs, two carrots, three potatoes, a few half-rotten vegetables. Nothing else. His stomach growled.
"Guess it's another omelet and carrot breakfast," he whispered bitterly.
He cracked an egg into a small frying pan with the last drops of cheap oil, sprinkled some salt, and watched it cook lifelessly. Grabbing a carrot, he bit into it raw. He ate silently, staring at the wall.
"I need a new job… the newspaper route isn't enough anymore," he thought, already worrying about rent, food, school supplies.
After finishing his sad breakfast, Rocky grabbed his worn school bag and stepped outside, unlocking his battered old bicycle. He pedaled slowly toward school, feeling the cold morning wind bite his thin skin.
---
At School---
The moment Rocky stepped into the school hallway, the atmosphere shifted.
He heard the laughter before he saw them.
Jack, the tall, handsome, arrogant leader of the school's biggest group of bullies, leaned against the lockers, grinning. His friends, all athletic, muscular, confident, gathered around him like a wolf pack.
Jack called out,
"Morning, shitty boy!"
The hallway echoed with laughter. Rocky kept his head low, clutching his bag tighter. He was used to this — the whispers, the insults, the humiliation. He told himself to just walk past, to pretend they didn't exist.
But Jack wasn't done.
"Hey! Come here!"
Rocky's heart pounded. His feet felt like lead. But slowly, he walked toward them, face pale, hands shaking.
Jack sneered,
"How dare you walk past us with that attitude, idiot?"
Tailer, the biggest and strongest of the group, crossed his arms and smirked.
"You know, Rocky… maybe if you beat one of us at martial arts, we'll let you enjoy your last year in peace."
The group howled with laughter. Rocky's stomach twisted. His mouth went dry.
But something in him, something buried under all the years of pain, humiliation, and loneliness, whispered: Enough.
His voice trembled, but he forced the words out,
"O-okay… I a-a-accept the challenge."
The boys fell silent for a moment, surprised. Tailer chuckled darkly.
"Alright then, pick one of us."
Rocky's eyes darted around, his breath shaky. Without thinking, he pointed at Jon — the tallest, fastest, and the one known for mastering…
Taekwondo.
The group exploded in shocked laughter.
"You're kidding! You're picking Jon?!"
---
The crowd circled around. Jon cracked his knuckles, smiling confidently. Rocky's legs shook as he stepped forward.
CRACK!
The first kick hit his knee — hard. Pain shot up his leg, and he dropped instantly.
WHAM!
A fist slammed into his face.
The world spun. The ground rushed up to meet him.
Everything faded to black.
---
When Rocky opened his eyes, everything was cold. His fingers touched hard stone. Confused, he sat up slowly — and froze.
He was surrounded by gravestones.
A cemetery.
His heart hammered in his chest as he stumbled to his feet. Panic surged through him, and without thinking, he ran — feet pounding against the ground, lungs burning — all the way home.
He burst into his apartment, slammed the door, and collapsed against it, gasping.
For a long moment, he sat there in silence.
No one had cared. No one had stopped the fight. No one had bothered to help him. They had left him there, unconscious, like trash.
Rocky stood up shakily, stepping into the bathroom. He stared at himself in the cracked mirror.
A pale, skinny, ugly boy stared back, eyes swollen from crying, lips trembling. He saw every bruise on his skin, every hollow part of his body, every weakness.
And like so many nights before, the tears came.
"Why am I like this…?" he whispered, his voice barely audible, shaking.
But this time, as the tears streamed down his cheeks, something inside him felt different.
He wasn't sure what it was — anger, shame, frustration, or maybe something darker — but it burned hotter than ever before.
He clenched his fists tightly, nails digging into his palms.
Because deep down, Rocky knew:
This couldn't continue.
Something had to change.
And when it did,
the world would see
the boy they had all thrown away.