Y'know those people you see on TV? The ones that make you go, "Wow, Johnny beat cancer! That's incredible!" They snag their fairy-tale happy ending. Then they slip right back into normal lives, just like everyday folks.
Yeah, I watched them too. They stayed in the rooms right across from mine.
Every week, cheers echoed down the hall. "Johnny" beat an "incurable" disease. "Yay! New medicine is the best!"
Yeah, fucking right.
What about me, though?
I was that random kid who staggered to the hospital front door. I had a disease. It wasn't even incurable. But did they treat me? Fuck no.
Parents? Both dipped the fuck outta my life. Figured the other would step up. Alcohol got them both eventually. Saw in a paper.
So I hit the streets for five long years. Just surviving day by day. You got any clue how brutal it is for a twelve-year-old to scrape cash? Fucking impossible. I went door to door looking for jobs, but nothing. Nobody was willing to give a 12 year old kid some money to scrape by.
Everyone preached the same lines. "Kids belong in school." Or, "Go find your parents."
I tried school once. Showed up first day, right on time. Acted like a regular kid.
But I wasn't regular at all. Clothes weeks old, caked in street grime. Parents left zilch—except a house yanked for unpaid rent, and hazy baby memories of their endless screaming.
No other family whatsoever. Never knew grandparents or cousins. Closest thing to a buddy? A stuffed bear from age three. Their one and only gift. They said they were done fighting, done with the alcohol, that they would live better for me. Old habits die hard, am I right? Keyword "die"—funny right?
At school, kids and teachers eyed me like a deranged freak. Beatings rained down during the day—right in front of staff. They didn't blink. Just walked on by.
I went back a couple days. Same nightmare every time. Ramping up worse. Pure hell.
Dipped out quick. Back to the streets, chasing scraps. Shelter, work, warm food. Man, I'd have killed for something hot.
Even lost that stuffed bear. Carried it everywhere as a tiny spark of hope. Things might improve someday. Ironic as shit, huh? At least I had myself, and that was enough for me—I thought things might get better if I give them enough time, right? No. The answer is no.
I lived in a dumpster-found tent. Scarfing down restaurant scraps down the street.
Pure torture, but I endured. Four solid years.
Then sickness crashed in at sixteen. I was mid-dumpster dive for my daily meal.
Heart started thundering out of nowhere. Knees buckled fast. Bile burned up my throat. Then... dead silence.
This is it, I figured. End of the line. Better than dragging out the misery. Woke up next to the dumpster, bleeding badly. Crawled my way to the hospital, thinking they would treat me right?
Nah. They didn't even kill me. They kept me alive. For what reason, I have no clue. Probably because they didn't want it on their resumé or some shi like that.
Doctors muttered, "Never seen this before." Total bullshit. They just skip treatment for penniless street trash.
Why can't a scrawny urchin snag a shred of love? I'm rotting here. Literally dying. Like kill me or cure me, please. Don't leave me in pain.
All I wanted was for someone to care. Someone to lean on, and someone who would lean on me. Savor life together, through rich or broke, parents or none.
They gave me a year, tops. Tossed me a phone for distraction. But pinned me down 24/7 with endless tests.
Body crumbling day by day. Blood-vomits ramping up—twice a day some stretches.
Sole lifeline? A webnovel. Never knew reading could grip me like that. "The Beginning of the End" had me intrigued.
Ominous name, but it kicked off light. MC Kyle Reed, radiant hero purging evil. Saving every damn arc.
Beacon of hope bullshit. I know hope's a lie. Pissed me off hard.
Harem of girls, zero romance savvy. Naive fool dreaming he could rescue everyone—and pulling it off. Infuriating as hell.
Side characters, though? Absolute masterclass. Layered backstories, real drives. Everything the hero lacked.
How's an author ace the supporting cast but botch the lead so bad?
Stuck with it anyway. Devoured fresh chapters daily. Some good, some bad—like any novel.
Final arc hit: Slays villains, beats evil god Oblivion. World saved. Victory lap. I cried tears of pure disgust for the shit that happened in that arc. He was literally half dead, Oblivion completely a-ok, had a flashback about the time his parents died from natural causes, said a corny ass punchline and suddenly won. Like WHAT THE ACTUAL FUUUUCK.
Happy ever after? For him, sure. My faves? Dead or wrecked.
Now it's wrapping up. Last chapter tomorrow. Same day I check out.
Poetic, yeah? Ha.
Nothing left to grip onto. That book was my anchor. Mediocre or not, it kept the fire flickering.
I just finished the last chapter. I'm done now. The anchor has finally been unhooked. Ready to give it all up. The agony. Daily blood hacks. That freeze-dried garbage—the cheapest slop they shove at me.
Tomorrow hit hard. Final chapter down.
Trash ending. MC lives happily ever after with his harem. Leaves the dead and broken in the dust.
Furious, I hurled my phone. Smashed it across the room. Why not? Not like I'll need it tomorrow.
Teeny cliffhanger: New Oblivion stirring. Lame half-measure at best.
Sighed deep and sank into bed. Blood welled in my throat. Gulped it back down. Body spasmed.
Then... gone. Pure peace. No pain left.
Drifting over an endless dark plain. Abyss itself.
Figured death halts it all. Brain, body, soul—everything stopped.
Not for me. Soul glided on, serene. Utter silence everywhere.
Quiet like never before. No traffic roar, no heartbeat thump. Ever-present noise? Vanished completely.
Pure nothingness—the abyss.
Then—a vicious yank. My soul gets pulled.
Not Earth. Somewhere utterly alien.