My name? It never mattered nor did my existence.
Not to my parents, not to my teachers, not to the crowd that walked past me every single day as if I didn't exist. I was born in the broken heart of Bangladesh—in a middle-class family struggling to breathe, suffocating under poverty, corruption of the politics, and the shadows of those who ruled with money instead of wisdom.
I grew up in loneliness. My parents, busy with their own miseries, never asked how I was doing. I wasn't abused. No… but worse—I was forgotten. My older brother was the golden one, born with the golden spoon in his mouth. Talented, loved, admired. I was the shadow trailing behind him, useful only to be compared with and then discarded.
Friends? They were illusions.
In school, I was the boy with torn shoes, the one who smelled like dust and slept through hunger. The rich boys mocked me, threw my notebooks in the mud, and when I cried, the teachers looked away. I remember Rafiq, one of my classmates, who used to pour ink on my shirts just for fun. They all laughed. Every time.
I learned early that justice was a myth. Especially for someone like me.
But I never gave up.
I devoured books like a starving man at a feast. Economics, politics, technology, science, physics—anything that could make me useful to my family, to my country. I didn't want fame. I didn't want money. I only wanted one thing: to build a future where no child would feel the way I did.
I spoke for the poor. I created jobs with nothing but knowledge. I exposed corruption. I stood tall in front of cameras while the world clapped, thinking they finally had a hero.
But heroes are dangerous… to the ones already in power.
Ministers whispered in shadowed rooms.
"He's too loud."
"He's making us look like fools."
"He'll expose everything."
"It's dangerous for us if he breathes."
My so-called rise became a threat.
My own brother, poisoned by envy, joined them. He claimed I had stolen government funds and was plotting to flee the country. I begged him—"You know me! Why are you doing this?" His eyes were empty. "You stole the spotlight, lil bro. Now you'll see what it feels like to be left alone."
And I did.
My followers—those I fought for—believed the lies. They turned against me like wild dogs. I was pulled from my rickshaw one rainy night, beaten with rods and chains. I saw familiar faces among the crowd. Minister Rehman. My own cousin, Farid. Even poor women I once gave food to… they were there, watching. And surprisingly my parents were there too.
"You traitor!"
"Thief!"
"You deserved this!"
"You thought we wouldn't know your schemes?"
They didn't listen as I choked on my own blood, trying to scream the truth. They didn't care.
As my breath faded and the sky above blurred into a cold, grey mess, I whispered:
"If I get a second chance…
I don't want to be a hero.
I don't want to be even human.
I'll become something else—
A monster. A dictator. A god."
"And destroy everything I once vowed to protect…
I won't allow any of them to get away with what they did to me…"
And somewhere beyond death, something heard me.
"Welcome forgotten soul"
Am I hearing things? Anyway, I wonder what a real family would be like! Guess I never was a chosen one.
"Do you wanna get revenge or do you wanna have a happy life?"
I don't know what to choose, do I want revenge?
"You had an unfair life, choose what you want from here, for your new destiny".
I don't understand what you are talking about, who are you anyway?