What is life?
People love to hypothesize over this question as if it holds the answer to the universe. Some say it's about finding love; others argue that it's about finding purpose. They'll even go so far as to devote their lives to faith, to family, or to whatever else gives them meaning in this endless mess.
But I've always been a cold believer of the fact that life is nothing more than a prison. Just think about it. You're born, without any say in the matter, no idea what you're signing up for, basically forced into existence whether you want it or not. Then you have ideals like faith, family, ethics, and respect shoved down your throat, as if you asked to be placed in this world in the first place. You abide by your life, living through experiences you never chose, never realizing that those very experiences shape you into what you become.
People think they're the ones choosing their fate, that they're in control of who they become, but that's just a farce. It's the situation, the environment, the pressure of circumstance that pushes you to become who you are, which most of the time is completely different from what you actually want to be. Most of the time, you're just a product of choices forced onto you by others, by the world.
And even then, after being thrust into this world, you don't even have control over the one thing you should: death. You're forced to abide by your life, taught that taking the easy way out is wrong, is weak, is pathetic, and you're forced to live not for yourself, but for the gratification you bring to others, the very people who don't give a single shit about you, who wouldn't notice if you disappeared tomorrow.
So you keep living. You endure. You're taught that fighting back, that retaliating, is a fool's game. That's always been the story of my life. Born and abandoned under a bridge by people who probably didn't even care, then shoved into an orphanage that looked like pancakes and sunshine from the outside. But on the inside? We were beaten, extorted, treated not as humans but as animals. And once we were old enough to break the poster-boy image they used for donations, we were tossed out like garbage, as if we had never mattered at all.
After that, all that mattered was survival, just living off the streets, doing anything to keep hunger at bay. Taking on shady jobs, getting beaten by cops, and harassed by those with power. But for what? Just to live another day and go through the same shit again? Or for the empty promise that maybe, just maybe, things might get better someday.
But how could things get better? Even after scraping together enough money to buy decent clothes, to rent a small place, no one wanted to hire someone like me, someone with no degree, no background, no family, no money. Nothing.
So you end up staring into the void, the place where you belong, taking on riskier jobs, more dangerous jobs, hoping that things might change, or maybe that one of them will finally be your last. You start walking through life half-alive, half-hoping for an accident, for a lucky end, for anything to bring meaning or closure in a world that doesn't care if you vanish.
Walking past the Munhwa Bridge, taking in the familiar sight of skyscrapers twinkling in the night, each one shining like a distant star, my heart pained to admit the fact that it was beautiful. Despite the dirt, the corruption, the crime, and the hypocrisy lurking behind those walls, despite all of that, it was still beautiful. Sometimes the city seemed to mock me with its beauty, as if daring me to love a place that wanted nothing to do with me.
The cold November air burned in my lungs as I inhaled, every breath stinging sharp, but I kept walking, boots clicking against the polished granite. It was late now, way past midnight, and the city was empty, the kind of empty that makes you wonder if the rest of the world has simply disappeared. The only sound was my own footsteps and the steady rhythm of my breath, little clouds of vapor curling into the air, swirling and disappearing.
How long am I supposed to keep living this way? Today, I turned eighteen. Still just a teenager, but already four years on my own since the orphanage kicked me out, leaving me with nothing but the rags they called clothes and a few coins in my pocket. Only if only, I had the courage to end it. But I knew I didn't. That feeling, wanting to die but hoping someone else would do it for you, is the most infuriating of all. It's like you're trapped in a loop you can't break, always waiting for someone or something to pull the trigger for you.
As I walked through the silent streets, I heard a faint whimpering coming from a side alley. The sound was muffled, forced, but in the quiet night, it echoed against the concrete, impossible to ignore. It sounded almost vivid, but with a human desperation that sent a chill up my spine.
I paused, listening, and stepped closer to the alley. That's when I saw them, three men in black, masked so well their faces were just shadows. They were pushing a woman against the wall, knives glinting in the dim light. There was something sadistic in their eyes, a twisted sort of glee in their smirks. One of them was yanking her purse away as he pressed his hand over her mouth, muffling her desperate cries.
Goddamn bastards.
The sound of my footsteps made them turn, their smirks wiped away by a flash of annoyance. The woman looked at me, her eyes drowning in terror and pleading.
"Hey, you! Get the fuck out of here if you don't want to die!" The man holding the woman shouted, his voice muffled by the cloth tied around his face.
"Seriously? Three men forcing themselves on a woman… Do you have no shame?" I replied, my voice light, almost mocking. I don't even know why I bothered. Maybe I was just tired of it all, maybe I was just hoping they'd put me out of my misery.
"This bastard, boss, should I kill him?" the one behind asked, holding out his knife, the blade catching the yellow streetlamp.
I wasn't a stranger to street fights. I'd been beaten black and blue more times than I could count, sometimes to the brink of death. But fighting someone armed, barehanded, and outnumbered, I knew I was going to lose. I already knew I would die. Yet, I couldn't stop myself. My body kept moving forward, a maniacal grin spreading across my face, as if the thought of a quick end was somehow comforting.
This is it. It can all end now.
"Get that bastard! Fucking nutjob…" the man shrieked, and his lackey lunged at me, closing the gap in a single stride, his knife arcing for my throat.
But I didn't flinch. I stepped in, intercepting the attack with my left hand, catching the blade in my fist. Pain shot up my arm as steel bit into flesh, blood dripping onto the ground, but I held on. The guy's eyes widened in shock, stepping back, but I didn't give him time to react. My right fist snapped out, catching him in the nose with a crack that sounded like dry branches snapping in winter.
He staggered, blood spraying, and I ripped the knife from his hand, gripping it tight. Before he could recover, I drove the blade into his gut.
Take that, you fucking bastard.
He fell, groaning, blood leaking from his belly. I yanked the knife free, now slick and red, and he collapsed, spitting up blood, already losing consciousness.
All of that took just a few seconds. As the shock passed, the other two realized what had happened. The woman's eyes went wide with disbelief, her breaths coming in ragged, terrified bursts.
"Don't just stand there! Get him!" the leader screamed, and both rushed me at once, one swinging in from the right, the other circling behind, aiming for my unguarded side.
Well, I'm not going out without a fight. I owe that much to this goddamn world.
I took a quick breath and glanced at the woman, who was still frozen with fear.
"Run!" I barked.
She understood, her eyes brimming with tears and gratitude. She turned and sprinted away, shoes slapping the pavement as she disappeared into the darkness, her silhouette flickering beneath the streetlights.
"Fucking bastard!" one of the men spat, rage taking over his features.
The hothead's gotta die.
The leader came at me from the right, his knife sweeping low. I barely dodged, but the blade still cut through my side, a burning line of pain. As his unguarded side opened up to me, I stabbed back in retaliation, driving my own blade into his thigh. He shrieked and collapsed; the knife still lodged in his leg.
However, this exchange had been both a boon and a bane. It had given the other guy exactly what he needed. He drove his hand towards me, plunging his knife into my side, pushing me against the wall. Pain exploded in my abdomen, hot and sharp, the world spinning for a second as I gasped for breath.
Fuck, that hurts.
The man glared at me, rage twisting his face. But instead of fear, I offered him a wicked smile, one that made him hesitate. That was all I needed. With my bloodied left hand, I grabbed his wrist, twisting hard. He lost his grip on the knife, and I pulled it out of my own side, gritting my teeth as agony flared. Before he could react, I stabbed him deep, right where the liver would be. He gasped, and I kicked him away, staggering toward the guy still crawling on the ground, whimpering with pain.
Fuck, can't even see straight now. I'm not gonna last much longer.
Blood was pouring from my wounds, my shirt soaked and sticky. My vision blurred, every step felt heavier, but the guy on the ground looked more terrified of me than anything else. The city lights seemed to close down, the world narrowing to just the two of us.
"N-no, p-please, let me go… pl-please…" he begged, scrambling away as I limped toward him, knife still dripping blood.
His back hit the wall. He looked up at me, face drained of colour, realisation dawning in his eyes. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do. Instead of fighting, he closed his eyes, head resting against the wall, waiting for it in acceptance.
Death came quickly. I drove the knife into his chest, right through the heart. He gasped, then went still, the last of his breath escaping in a whisper.
I stumbled back, dropping to the cold granite, landing hard on my back. I'd lost too much blood. The adrenaline was fading, leaving only pain and cold. My vision swam, the world threatening to fade into black as my lungs burned, gasping for air that never came.
Fuck, it burns. Though not a bad way to go, I guess.
The stars looked beautiful above me. They really did, bright and untouchable, scattered across the sky like a million tiny promises. Maybe you do have control over your death, just not the way humans would prefer. Dying in your room, a bullet in your head, or out here, saving someone, it's all the same. Dying is dying. But maybe how you die… maybe that's all there is to it.
The cold air bit at my skin, harsher now. It was a weird feeling; my wounds burned, but at the same time, I felt an unbearable chill seeping into my bones, growing deeper with every second.
As the sweet embrace of death finally took me, gentle as sleep, I realised dying really wasn't so bad, especially when it was under your own control.