My name is Alex. I am eighty-seven years old, lying on my deathbed, waiting for my last breath to leave me.
I'm not tired because of my age, I'm tired because of life itself. Because of the countless tragedies that tore through me, one after another, leaving scars that never healed.
The hospital room feels quiet and heavy, filled with the faint smell of medicine and the distant beeping of machines. My son and daughter sit beside me, their eyes red from silent tears.
My ten-year-old grandson, Shivam, stands near the end of my bed. He looks at me with curiosity and sadness far beyond his age.
"Grandpa," he asks softly, "why are you always sad? Your eyes always look so tired of this life.". My son quickly tries to hush him, but I raise a weak hand to stop him.
Perhaps… this was the moment I had been waiting for. The last chance to release everything I had been carrying inside for decades.
I took a shallow breath, straightened my back against the pillow, and said quietly, "Let him stay. It's time you all know."
I could feel my heart beating slowly, every thump a reminder that the end was near. "Shivam," I said, my voice trembling, "what I'm about to tell you… is a story traumatising enough to drive any person to suicide, even if they experienced just three of these things in their lifetime."
And then, I began.
I was thirteen. A simple, cheerful boy, living a normal life in India. My world was small, my friends, my school, my parents, and the endless noise of the city. Life was easy back then. I had no idea how quickly it would turn cruel.
The first tragedy struck me without warning.
That morning, I was walking to school with my best friend. We laughed about our homework and teased each other as we always did. The road was crowded, and the air smelled of dust and exhaust.
Among the people walking near us was a man who was drunk, stumbling, muttering nonsense. His eyes were red, his clothes filthy. Everyone gave him space, and so did we.
We picked up our pace, whispering nervously, hoping he'd fall behind. But instead, he started running. Before I could understand what was happening, he shoved my friend hard.
Time didn't slow down. It just broke.
There was a sound, a horrible, heavy crack sound followed by screams that didn't sound human. My eyes turned just in time to see the truck and what I saw still haunts me, even after seventy five years.. Its wheels rolled over him before my voice could even form his name. There were only two things at that time, silence and blood. The driver's brakes screamed, but it was too late. There was nothing left to save.
The sound I heard, that horrible crack was his skull breaking open.
When the truck finally stopped, I saw something on the road that made my body freeze, a part of his brain, still pulsing faintly, dragged several meters ahead.
I fell backwards in shock, unable to breathe, unable to scream. The world spun and then went dark.
When I woke up in the hospital, I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't eat for days.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that moment again… the sound, the sight, the helplessness.
That was the first tragedy of my life. The beginning of everything that broke me.