"The pretence of fairness was invented by God to make the living equal. Humans, however, changed that," a being once said.
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"Is it wrong to be average?" His words tore through the cemetery, along with the rain, as the boy stood among the graves; lightning bled from the sky. For a moment he thought he had seen a figure at the edge of the cemetery. Then it was gone, swallowed by rain.
He didn't mean it in a materialistic way but rather spiritually. Why is one soul brighter than another?
"Why... why was it like this?" He blurted out unconsciously.
The question came out, before it could matter. Everyone else soared. Their grades, praises. It had cost them nothing while he had watched from the sidelines.
His left hand was holding a sheet of paper filled with nothing but the average. Yet all he did was just give a smile and hide his emotions deep inside. Never venting.
Their pity burned into him, soft voices and downturned eyes like knives he couldn't dodge.
And even worse, there was nothing he could do to change that. Damn, he always wanted to switch places with them and feel what it would be like to look down on someone.
He remembered a man once saying, "Wherever there are 'winners', there will always be 'losers'."
He glanced at the stormy sky, searching for answers in the jagged flashes of lightning, but found none. Yet, what truly remained was an intricate abstract canvas. Doesn't make sense, does it? But to someone else, they might convey a deeper meaning.
"What God?"
At the end of each day, he stood there alone.
There was no light at the end of each tunnel, like people said there was, and there was no warmth for him to even embrace. Only a gravestone with a name that was eroded over the years.
"Oh, mother." His voice was silenced by the thunder and the droplets of rain. His fingers brushed over the indistinct name.
"I wonder if you would 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 a little more than usual in deep thought and sighed, looking at a puddle reflecting a face he didn't even recognise through his peripheral vision.
Unkempt black hair plastered to his pale face, rain sliding over him, powerless to soften away the emptiness.
'Huh… trash.' The words didn't even need to leave his mouth, yet they pressed louder than the falling rain and crackling thunder.
He laughed. A strangled, broken sound. The rain answered, 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.' He thought to himself.
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 jerked as his eyes widened, heart hammering inside of him as if trying to burst.
Too late. The hiss of a needle bit into his neck like a python, as fire raced through his veins. A heavy, creeping numbness made his limbs betray him. The world wavered like ink smudged across a page, darkness coiling around him, swallowing sight, sound, and finally him whole, as he dropped the paper from his hand.
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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 unyielding and cold.
Above him, a blinding light hummed like a beehive. Masked figures drifted past, their movements sharp and deliberate.
For a heartbeat, 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. None promised 'healing'. But maybe there was hope.
A voice sliced through the room, cruel and cold. "Boss, he's awake."
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, his voice cold and clinical as he flipped 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.
The third beat never came.
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.'
But nothing answered.