The way in which each individual perceives the world is inherently diverse and unique. Some see it through an optimistic way, akin to the vibrant beauty of a flowering plant, while others hold a contrasting view, seeing it as unjust or unfair. Happiness can be found in the smallest of things for some, while others may feel a sense of emptiness even after accomplishing everything. I am one such individual.I had enacted my revenge, but what did it cost? Everything I held dear. I had att—
My monologue was abruptly halted by the doctor sitting before me, his solemn words piercing the air. "I am sorry, Mr. Johnson, but you have a very chronic disease," he stated, his gaze locking with mine. A heavy sigh escaped my lips; it confirmed my thoughts. "It is called Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), and humanity has yet to find a cure," the doctor explained before I could gather my thoughts.
I interjected calmly, "How much time do I have left?" The doctor's demeanor shifted, his resignation palpable as he replied, "It could have been different if you had sought help earlier. Now, at most a year, at worst six months." Time seemed to stand still as the weight of his words settled upon me, I had noticed the symptoms way earlier and I could have come here and get under care for delayed death, but I would have died nonetheless. I also wanted this miserable life of mine to an end, so I wasn't too sad as I had deliberately chose to get diagnosed late to at least know the cause of my death.
I rose from my chair, fully aware of my purpose. The doctor attempted to offer hope, but I could not bear the thought of prolonging the inevitable. "Doctor," I stated firmly, "I refuse to linger as a feeble patient in my final days." With those words, I departed from his office, leaving behind any false promises of a cure. Driving back to my secluded home on the outskirts, I sought solace from the chaotic world beyond.
Entering my tranquil abode, my faithful companion Jimmy greeted me with a joyful bark, his loyalty a comforting presence in my solitude. As I fed him, a pang of sadness struck me as I considered his fate once I was gone. Resolved to find him a caring new owner, I made a mental note for the future. Retreating to the balcony, I settled into a chair, the cool evening breeze brushing against my skin, prompting a reflection on the events that had led me to this moment.
Lost in contemplation, memories flooded my mind like a torrent, each one a piece of the intricate puzzle that had brought me to this crossroads.
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I came into the world uninvited, a child of circumstance born from a dark encounter between my drunken father and a lost woman. That woman, whom I would come to know as my mother, endured nine arduous months before I arrived. Living under the same roof, they were little more than strangers to each other. My father, when he was not drowning in alcohol, hardly spared a word for her. I grew up starved of a mother's nurturing touch and a father's gentle guidance.
From a young age, I bore a peculiar gift – a relentless memory that captured every detail with unwavering clarity, a condition later identified as hyperthymesia. This ability felt more like a burden than a blessing, as it etched into my mind the haunting echoes of my mother's pleas and cries when my father's rage descended upon her in his drunken stupors. Despite her distant demeanor towards me, I discerned a flicker of warmth in her eyes, and in rare moments of bravery, she shielded me from the brunt of my father's violence, absorbing his blows to safeguard me.
That day is etched in my memory like a scar. My father stumbled home, reeking of liquor, his eyes blazing with a fury I'd never seen before. My mother, frail and frightened, tried to shield me from his wrath. But I was only seven, and I couldn't escape the horror that unfolded.
As my father's rage escalated, he grabbed a rusty metal pipe from the garage. I watched in terror as he brought it down on my mother, again and again, until she lay motionless on the floor. Her bloodied body, her pleas, and her screams are forever seared into my mind.
In that moment, my father taught me a brutal lesson: "The weak have no rights." His words still echo in my mind, a haunting reminder that the world is unforgiving, and the strong will always trample the weak.
After that day, everything changed. I took on the responsibility of caring for our home, enduring my father's beatings, and silencing my own cries for help. I was weak, and he was strong. I had no right to complain.
Two years later, when I was just nine, my father sold me to some men for a handful of cash. I didn't resist, didn't protest. I knew I was weak, and they were strong.
Strangely, I don't harbor resentment towards my father. Instead, I feel a twisted sense of gratitude. His cruelty forged me into the person I am today – strong, resilient, and unbroken.
From the moment I acknowledged my weakness, I vowed to shatter the chains that bound me. I yearned to forge my own path, to live life on my terms. And so, when the men who bought me from my father sent me to a mysterious facility, I saw it as an opportunity.
The facility was a hub of activity, teeming with children around my age or older. We were told that we would undergo rigorous training, honing our skills in the art of killing. We would be molded into deadly weapons, forced to confront our mortality at every turn. Failure would be met with swift and merciless punishment – death.
But I saw this as my chance to transcend my weakness, to emerge stronger and more resilient. I threw myself into the training, pushing my body and mind to the breaking point. The trials were relentless, designed to test the limits of human endurance. I survived the unimaginable, enduring 12 long years of hellish training.
I was not alone in my survival. Four others, out of the 234 children who started with me, also made it through the ordeal. The rest, the ones I remembered from that first day, were gone – victims of the merciless training that had been designed to break us.