They say life begins at twenty, or even forty. But what happens when yours is effectively over the moment you're born?
Huff... huff...
Panting like a dog, I caught my reflection in the grimy window. My body, short, and far too skinny. You'd think a construction job would have built me up, given me some muscle.
The truth was far less inspiring. Every penny I earned went straight to rent, electricity, and water bills. What little remained bought food, never enough. What's the point of breaking my back lifting, mixing, sand and rocks if I'm eating shit.
With a final, weary heave, I placed the last of the oversized tiles. The chime of a bell echoed through the construction site, signaling the end of the work for today. The sun was already setting, painting the sky in hues of orange as I trudged towards the foreman, eager to claim the bag. the day's wages that were my only lifeline.
I extended my palm, the skin rough and calloused, etched with the grime of cement and mortar. The foreman was silent, his gaze lingering on my hand. I could feel his pity, probably from seeing a young boy doing a man's work. While others my age were hanging out and laughing with friends, I was hauling bricks and being subjected on second hand smoking.
At this point, I thought, why not just light one up myself?.
Clutching the meager wad of cash, I hoisted my worn-out bag over my shoulder and started the long walk home. Thirty minutes on foot before I could finally collapse and give my aching body some rest. I used to take the bus, but with what I was earning, it felt like throwing money away rather than a genuine help.
Bag slung over my back, hands shoved deep into my pockets, I stood with a small crowd at the crosswalk, waiting for the signal. Around me, people were dressed in neat, stylish clothes, the kind that cost more than I made in a week, while others sported crisp, black corporate suits. I pulled out my beat-up smartphone, the screen full of cracks, plugged in my worn-out earphones, and hit play. The same songs I'd downloaded ages ago filled my ears, a small, familiar comfort to block the city's relentless noise.
Has he lost his mind?
Can he see or is he blind?
Can he walk at all, or if he moves will he fall?
Is he alive or dead?
Has he thoughts within his head?
We'll just pass him there
Why should we even care?
After a while, I finally reached the old, beat up apartment complex I call home. Unsurprisingly, the elevator was out of service again. though to be fair, I couldn't remember a time when it wasn't. It had been that way since the day I moved in.
With a tired sigh, I took the stairs, dragging my feet all the way to the second floor where Room Seven waited. My place, if you can even call it one. Still, it was better than sleeping on the streets.
I slid the key into the lock, and the door creaked open, its hinges protesting like they always did. Once inside, I turned the deadbolt, sealing myself off from the world.
The first thing I did was jump into the shower, letting the water wash away the dirt and sweat clinging to my skin after another long day. When I got out, I collapsed onto my mattress, barely more than a thin pad on the floor and pulled my cheap old laptop toward me.
Most nights, this was where I stayed, unless I was out breaking my back doing whatever extra work i find. I booted up a game, played for a while in the dim light of the screen, and eventually called it a day.
This had become my life's monotonous rhythm for the past five years, a relentless cycle of merely trying to survive. And frankly, it sucked. I yearned for more, to achieve something beyond just existing, but I felt shackled, trapped by an invisible force that seemed impossible to overcome.
Tring!... TRING!!!...
The sound of the alarm clock pierced the silence, dragging me back to reality. It was 6 a.m., the start of another day in this seemingly endless loop.
***
Yo, Twig! Here i thought you quit this gig…
You didn't forget about me, did you? You fucking loser.
I straighten up, squinting at the guy walking towards me. Expensive tee, designer jacket… he looks like he wandered off the set of a reality show.
I stared at him, racking my brain. Trying to remember who it was.
You fucker! You didn't seriously forget who I was? Or are you just playing dumb?
He closed the gap, invading my personal space.
Wait… hold on, let me Guess...
I slammed my fist into my open palm with a theatrical flourish.
Aha! You're the type of guy for whom harassing hard-working people is a hobby because you want everyone to know how much of a douchebag you are.
His face flushed with rage, and he lunged at me, throwing a wild punch that I easily dodged. But the follow-up kick caught me straight in the gut, sending a jolt of pain through my body.
I went down hard, landing on my ass, hitting the sand with a thud. That gave me an idea. I scooped up a handful of sand and flung it at his face. Nailed him right in the eyes. He screamed and started clawing at his face, trying to remove the sand.
Before I could even scramble to my feet, his goons jumped me, a flurry of fists and boots. I could only raise my arms in a futile attempt to shield myself, but it was a losing battle. There were three of them, making any real defense irrelevant. All I could do was brace for impact and take the beating.
The other workers stood by, watching with a mixture of indifference and apprehension. After all, this entitled prick was the son of the guy who owned the building we were working on. But even if he wasn't, I doubted they'd care enough to intervene.
After what felt like an eternity of relentless pummeling, they finally stopped, leaving me sprawled on the ground.
I wobbled to my feet, attempting to brush off the dirt as best I could. I caught the pitiful glances of the other workers, their expressions a mix of sympathy and discomfort. That was the last straw. I crashed out.
FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?
I yelled, my voice raw.
YEAH, I GOT MY ASS BEATEN, BUT AT LEAST I HAVE THE BALLS TO FIGHT BACK, UNLIKE YOU BUNCH OF PUSSIES!
I spat on the ground, then turned back to my work.