2 The Beginning?

Death.

Something everyone is afraid of, and yet can't escape from either. Thinking about such things is frowned upon, but everyone thinks it anyway. Minutes away from death, I kind of get what everyone says about fearing. It is common knowledge and the social norm not to even contemplate killing yourself, and this feeling now is probably why. Upon opening my eyes, a film of blood covered my vision in a red tint, warm liquid dripping down my face and body.

I tried to get it off, but my arms would not cooperate, as I have been shot many times previous to this predicament. I know I am going to die from blood loss in a couple of minutes, so reminiscing on the past might not be the best, but something I have to address to face whatever comes after death, which is not decided, no matter what you believe.

"you seem to be in a bit of a predicament." A voice said inside my head. choking on my blood, I did not have the strength to ask who, or what the voice is, and what it is doing inside my head. And just as soon as it spoke, it disappeared, never to be heard again, just like power leaving a radio. A faint crackling and then nothing. With that voice ringing in the back of my head, I thought about what is going to happen to me.

I think that beyond death is a place of judgment, based on the sins you have committed. however, different from other common beliefs, I think there is no good or bad way to go, like heaven or hell. there is only scorn for those who have done wrong, and praise for those who have done well. squeezing my palm, a massive spurt of blood got coughed up, making me throw up my previous meal before the attack.

"Damn, I wish I could have foreseen this betrayal. For 16 years I have been watchful, taking care of only myself, and when I finally decide to putt a small amount of trust in somebody, I get killed. So much for you get what you give. Anyways, it seems dying takes longer than I anticipated. God damn you, Mark. I trusted you, and you shot me in the back, literally. If I get reincarnated, I promise I will never trust again, I make that to you, Mark!" I screamed, attracting attention from the people on the street.

Of course! There were people on the street walking only a couple of feet away. I could call for them, but the likeliness that they would help and I would survive even if they did were almost zero. Such is the society of this world. Heaving a great sigh, I thought back to when I had to fend for myself, the only times I could have someone to trust. Myself.

A name has been placed on my shoulders, but I was not born with one. My parents were both figures of no importance in my life, as they did not treat me like a human being, more of a waste of space. My mother was a chronic drug addict, wasting my father's money to get high instead of helping pay the rent of their little apartment. This started a cycle of madness when my mother got pregnant. Both my mother and father knew it could not be I could not be their baby, as they could barely stand each other, so my father went into a drinking problem, beating me senselessly, calling me boy and kid instead of a son.

Of course, the house's rent needed to be paid, so, when I turned 8, I was sent to some traffickers, making some big bucks for my family for the next few years. Most traffickers took away the children, but my father had a contract that would allow him to keep the custody of me, and the catch was that he had to send me away 6 out of 7 days a week to get abused, sometimes by multiple customers. Of course, this was of no concern to my parents at all because, as far as they are concerned, they did not have a son, only an ATM that never runs out of cash.

When I was going to those meetings, I was told that I was helping my family, and that was enough for my childish brain to accept the horrible treatment they were putting me through. To this day, I do not know how I could have thought what I did back then was ok. It was not until I was 12 that I finally had enough. Not long after I resigned myself to killing these monsters wearing human skin, a few customers complained about the service, making my use not needed, sending me back to my parents.

This, of course, enraged them to no end, something they both surprisingly agreed upon. Beating upon beating occurred, even over the smallest things. Thinking back, I shiver to think what I would have done to them should I have been a bit older. Anyways, with my parents spiraling into madness, and the rent getting steeper, I was kicked out of the family, still treated as nothing but a broken ATM.

That's when the voices started. At first, they were small whispers, happening every few days, sometimes twice a day for a couple of weeks. But as time went on, things started taking a turn for the worse. I began having full conversations with this being, some figment of my imagination to pass the time and keep me sane. His name was Jerry. We shared stories about past experiences, new adventures, and what to do next. Jerry even gave me advice on how to approach certain situations.

Some theft was used where it was needed, some murders happened where it would benefit me, and I managed to get away scot-free every time. With this, my mentality went on a massive decline, to the point where I would go into full conversations with Jerry in broad daylight, frightening pedestrians. I was in the newspaper, having some conversations, and no one knew it was me. This gave me a thrill that I have never experienced before. Being noticed.