The entire room rumbled from the constant pounding outside the door, the shouts muffled through the walls. Whatever it was, they seemed upset and angry, repeatedly complaining about the debt that had not been paid by the due date. The entire neighborhood saw this more as a drama than a commotion, treating it like an everyday television show scheduled for the same early hour. The door was kicked repeatedly, as if silence was an unacceptable answer. This continued for almost an hour before they finally gave up.
Despite all this, a person inside remained asleep in his bed, a blanket covering his body, his eyes shut as if those voices had nothing to do with him. He slept like a log, the angry protests outside nothing more than a lullaby.
Eventually, he stirred, sitting up in bed. He was a teenager with black hair and black eyes. Moving the curtain slightly, he peeked out of the window to check if the debt collectors had truly left. Sunlight streamed into the dimly lit room, revealing its utter disarray—garbage scattered across the floor, numerous empty cup noodle containers bundled together, crumpled clothes piled on his bed, and unwashed dishes stacked high in the sink.
Sighing, he looked around his hoarded home before reaching for his phone. The screen lit up, casting a glow on his weary face. His wallpaper displayed a photo of him cuddling with an older woman—his mother. Notifications flooded his screen: missed calls, text messages, debt collectors threatening to lower his credit score, voicemails from friends and coworkers. They all felt like a nuisance. He had long since stopped caring about appearances or maintaining relationships. Everything felt like a hassle.
The time read 12:36 PM. It was already noon—his usual waking hour. The days all blurred together, meaningless repetitions. One might instinctively rise to clean such a messy house, but he did no such thing. Instead, he unlocked his phone and began playing games. If it wasn’t obvious already, this boy was living a poor lifestyle.
He sat against the wall, hands gripping his phone, playing for hours without moving. His concentration remained undisturbed, yet none of the games brought him joy. He didn’t play them for entertainment but as a distraction. A distraction from the regrets that haunted him, whispering in the dead of night, keeping him from waking up early. Regrets that told him he could have done better. He vented his frustration by pressing the screen harder than necessary.
Then, he remembered the moment he regretted most—the event that made him the pathetic person he was today.
It was in the moment where his mother had fallen ill. At first, it was just coughing, leaving her breathless. Her skin grew paler, her movements slower, her once-bright eyes dull and clouded. Aiden had finally convinced her to see a doctor, despite her protests about the cost.
The diagnosis: Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD). A slow, insidious illness that crept into her life. Her days were filled with medications, nebulizer treatments, and long periods of rest.
The reality of her condition weighed heavily on him. COPD wasn’t something you cured—you managed it, delayed the worst of it, but couldn’t stop it. The doctors had explained it clinically, but the truth hit harder each time he saw her struggle for breath, each time he watched her shoulders slump after trying to walk across the room.
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Desperate, he reached out to relatives at that time—his father, aunts, grandparents—hoping for help. But one by one, they turned him away with excuses, empty promises, or cold silence. No one cared. No one helped.
His father, a minimum-wage worker turned gambling addict, had disappeared long ago before his mother got the disease, leaving his debts behind to him and his mother. His aunt, a self-proclaimed 'not needing any man and an independent woman', always exaggerated her struggles to his mother saying how her customers are always abusive when she was assigned as the waitress. When her mother fell ill, she had promised to help but never showed up. The boy saw his aunt always posting in social media and set up an only fans account with barely 50 followers. His grandparents refused, saying their retirement money was for them to enjoy. “We’ll see her in the afterlife,” they said coldly.
Realizing he had no one, Aiden dropped out of school without hesitation and started working. His life became a blur of endless labor. Convenience store shifts at night, janitorial work in the mornings, construction on weekends, grocery deliveries when he could—each job draining him, yet never bringing in enough money. Crowdfunding barely made a dent in the medical bills. Their insurance company had long stopped answering his calls.
Each evening, he visited his mother, only to find her a little weaker. Yet she always smiled and told him to move on, to find happiness even when she was gone. He nodded, pretending to believe her words. But deep down, he never thought that day would come.
Then, it did.
When she passed away, he didn’t cry. He told himself this was just how the world worked—people left, life moved on, and so would he. He tried to do what his mother had told him—to find joy, to keep moving forward. That’s what he convinced himself to believe, he adapted. At first, he functioned as if nothing had changed. He worked tirelessly, paying off the enormous debt that had nearly crushed him. From the outside, he was surviving. But something felt... off. Wrong. As if a piece of him had been hollowed out.
Then, it hit him. The emptiness. The suffocating realization that his mother was truly gone. No matter where he went, no matter what he did, he would never see her again. His purpose—his drive to keep going—had always been built on saving her. But now, there was nothing left to save. Nothing waiting for him at the end of all his struggles.
Everything he once cared about has crumbled. His ambitions, his dreams—none of it mattered anymore. Because the only reason he had fought so hard was buried beneath the weight of his failure.
And now, he simply didn’t care.
His father hadn’t even visited her grave. the boy doubted the man even knew she was dead. He swore he’d kill him, so he tried to find where that fucker lived, he watched the news where it turns out he was living in a drug supplier's home being his bitch. His aunt, pregnant by some unknown runaway father. He knows that whore couldn't pay the landlord, he hoped she’d freeze in a cold winter night. His grandparents, most likely suffering from dementia. He hoped their retirement home gets bankrupt and leave them in an abandoned building for them to rot. The thought of them suffering brought him a grim satisfaction.
He played his games until his stomach grumbled, the hunger growing unbearable. His cup noodle supply had run out. Normally, he’d ignore his hunger and sleep, but today his body refused. He needed food.
Reaching for the door, he twisted the knob and stepped outside. For the first time in weeks, fresh air hit his face. The stench of his room escaped into the world, an offensive odor released to the public. His destination: the convenience store, where he would buy the cheapest food available with what remained of his mother’s death insurance.
He walked the streets with a slouched posture, eyes hollow. Then, he heard it—the blaring of a horn, the screech of tires. He barely had time to register the sound before something heavy slammed into him. His body was thrown into the air, weightless for a fleeting moment before pain engulfed him. His consciousness faded as he hit the ground.
Darkness consumed him.