Chapter 5: Miserable

It was a small apartment, one of several in that morbid pension with depressing tones,

there was only one room where the mattress could fit and the kitchen, filled with junk,

the stench was stinging the nostrils, cockroaches took advantage of the aroma and the

remnants of fast foods still in their packaging lying there.

Drowned in that sea of rubbish a man lay in the middle of it, his hair down to the back

of his neck, the wrinkles of age covering his face. His big beard that didn't even

remember the last time it had been trimmed, his sweaty clothes retaining all the stench

of weeks without a bath, gave the final touch of depression to the place where all the

closed windows prevented the entry of any sparks of light.

The alarm went off, it was eight in the morning, the man refused to get up, preferring to

stay on the damp and dark mattress where fungi made a home, still holding in his hand a

modern ejector syringe that he used for his strong "medicines".

However, the alarm persisted, the sharp and thunderous sound it made was incessant,

shaking and squeezing the head of the man who had surrendered to get up.

Standing on the mattress, he looked around, threw the injection in any corner and then

took an almost empty box of painkillers and took all the last pills that were left there.

When looking for another box of drugs, he saw none but empty, trampled in

indignation.

He was lying down again on his bed of mold, until he caught sight of the portrait, the

only thing on the table, the photo that was gathering dust, staring at it for a few seconds.

He then picked up his dusty coat from the floor and left the apartment.

He passed in the corridors of the pension, everyone already knew what he was like, they

greeted him with their eyes, the expression of disgust and whispers which the man

already knew what it was about.

He passed with his head down and hands in his pockets by everyone he saw until he

reached the street, inside the wall it was composed of streets that looked like labyrinths

which the man walked quietly knowing his route that he always took, with

unnecessarily tall buildings covering him.

The richest traveled in cars that looked like ships, but none lived close to where he

lived, it was in the lowest part of the interior of the wall, charitably nicknamed his

neighborhood "Streets of the Plague". There, people didn't ride machines, they dragged

themselves through the hell of alleys.

Then he arrived at the pharmacy, well lit, without any worn paint, a contrast like gold

stuffed in shit, in the middle of the other buildings.

After all, it was the only business that really made a profit in that place, people couldn't

spend much on leisure or food, but they easily opened their wallets to take drugs that

would leave them alive for another day in that nightmare.

Upon entering shelves of medicine extended to the register under the pure glow of the

lamps.

" How can I help you? " The attendant addressed the man, smiling, perhaps the only one

who had managed to do that in the Streets of Plague.

"I need more of that." the man said, tossing some crumpled bills onto the counter.

"By prescription only, sir."

" Just sell me just one more batch, you know I pay well, more than I should." he said

while rubbing his dirty beard.

The attendant lost his smile looking at the bills. -But not enough.- he said dryly.

"Five boxes, I'm never coming here again." The man put more crumpled bills on the

table.

The clerk sighed, ducked quickly to the counter, and placed a box on the table—"One.

And this is the last time I will risk selling these drugs to you."

"Come on, fuck, I'd buy 10 for that money." He slammed his fists on the counter.

"And now you buy one." The attendant abruptly approached the man, responding to his

attitude.

"I almost got caught last time, I'm not risking the best job you can get in this shit with

my record anymore, I'm not going back to that hell of a street. If you want to keep

killing yourself slowly, go fucking kill yourself somewhere else."

He looked at the attendant, he knew it wasn't worth arguing, he took the only box, put it

in his coat pockets and slammed the doors of the establishment.

"Check back often!" said the clerk, returning with his usual smile.

He was on the same path back to the apartment, heading through the maze of streets.

-Hey, old man.- a voice from the streets called to him. The man tried to ignore it,

lowering his head further to let the hood of his coat hide his face more.

There were five boys, raggedy, they smelled like the street sewer, they were

pickpockets, the man knew that's why he tried to ignore them.

Young people didn't let him leave the street easily, when they realized they were being

ignored, they surrounded him.

"Snap out some coins, old man. We're starving."—that rude language, it was painful to

hear, hadn't asked the man nicely for money, after all, it wasn't a request.

The man stopped, surrounded on all sides by pickpockets.

" Hey, don't be scared, I don't bite "— he said as he gently lifted his shirt to show the

knife at his waist.

The man faced the knife and the five men who surrounded him, remained with the same

expression and walked trying to get out of that enclosure, without giving them any

verbal response.

He had been pushed back into place as he tried to get past the man in front of him.

The man's lack of words was irritating the bandits around him, they demanded all the

money he had, but the man again ignored them and tried to leave again.

The second time the men tired of giving him warnings, the first hit him square in the pit

of his stomach, making him fall.

The others started kicking him, some hitting him with pipes and pieces of wood they

found on the street.

The man didn't change his expression, he looked serious while with one hand he

defended his face and with the other he firmly held the box with the drugs.

They beat him until they ran out of breath, then searched and took what little money

they had left.

When they finished, what looked like their leader, what stopped the man, went to his

head, he was already covered in bruises, he could barely stay awake. He lifted his head

until it was in front of his.

"When I say something, answer it, you piece of shit." Then he spat in her face, mixing

his blood with his dirty saliva.

When the men left, he still had difficulty getting up, it took him almost 5 minutes to get

up and then with his hand on his rib, perhaps broken, he walked the rest of the way to

his apartment.

He took a while, but finally he had arrived, he could barely stand up, he opened the door

eager to lie down.

However, when viewing the interior of his apartment, he sees a man in the midst of his

junk.

"I wanted to meet the person who left Morgan the Endless in this state."

Morgan looked at the man in front of him without expressing surprise for being there,

he walked calmly to his refrigerator, when he arrived he took the pot of sour milk to put

on his bruises on his face — "People" — he corrected him.

The man who had entered his apartment without permission made a contrast with the

place, he had well defined jaw without a beard, blond curls and green eyes with a dark

blue suit with golden buttons open to make visible the black silk shirt that was

underneath, trousers in the same blue to match the elegance of the suit and black leather

dress shoes.

"Do you want to go on living like this? In the middle of the garbage, being beaten by

pickpockets, begging for crumbs of drugs to make him forget he's alive."

Morgan had gone to the front of the man. Staring at him. "Get out."

"You can't even look at the portrait, can you?" The elegant man glared back at him.

"I won't repeat it." The words entered his head like knives, he was about to explode in

rage.

"You want to die slowly, so you wallow in drugs and misery, I don't care what you

choose. But we need you." — the man then took out a cell phone and put it on the table.

"But if you've made up your mind to die, die being useful at least, I've had word of her

far north beyond the wall. In the desert of ashes."

Morgan's gaze for the first time widened in surprise.

"At least someone did something while you were… like that. I don't care if you die, but

if in some corner of your heart you want to redeem yourself, die outside the wall doing

something that changes that, not in a musty apartment. Call from that cell phone the

number I put next to the device."

Then the man left the apartment.

Morgan looked at the cell phone. He didn't touch him. He lay down on his bed, tried to

sleep, but the voices came back in his head. "Fulgar Armotris". "Father". "Morgan!"

"Help!".

He put his hands over his ears, but the sound came from within.

Then he filled his hand with some pills and put them all in his mouth. Thirty minutes

passed in hell, until the effect took effect and he was finally able to sleep.

That day for the first time in years, he dreamed.

He was returning to his house, it was snowing outside, but he wasn't shivering because

of the thermal sensation, he was hiding from the cold in the heat of a kettle, he was

shivering with anxiety. In his sweaty and soiled hands he held a rag doll. "She's not a

child for this anymore." He thought to himself regretful for the choice of gift.

Then he arrived at the door of the house. He held the doll tight, hesitated to hit it, until

he got up the courage. It wasn't even a minute before they answered the door, he flung it

open and jumped into her arms.

In his dream he remembered every detail of her, her long brown hair, but she persisted

in tying it up, her white and reddish skin, her defined eyebrows that accompanied those

caramel eyes and thin, slightly pert nose.

She didn't let go of him, the smile didn't leave her face, he was still in his uniform, dirty,

sweaty, she didn't give a damn, she hugged him so tight that he would be unable not to

record that moment and not a thousand pills would make he forget.

She then took the doll, he knew that at her age she no longer had an appreciation for

things like that, but she smiled so much as she hugged the present to the side of her

cheek that it made him squeeze his hands so hard that they even bleed, just to hold it.

her emotion and gratitude for her daughter.

But then he woke up, the colors faded, it was night, there was no one in his morbid

room where smiles never appeared. She wasn't there.

His body was still sore, he looked at the ceiling seriously, his expression was angry, he

put his hand on her chest, recited a few words and a green veil covered him, healing his

wounds.

He grabbed his cell phone and coat then left the apartment again.

He walked with short, quick steps through those streets that glittered with the artificial

lights of the buildings.

He walked for hours, until he finally found what he was looking for, or almost.

One of the 5 thieves who had beaten him, he remembered the face of each one, was

talking to a girl at the time, had his back to Morgan who approached without making a

single noise.

The woman then screamed as the man was leaning against her back.

The thief tried to turn around but received a punch too strong to withstand, he fell to the

ground.

The girl had already run away by that time, Morgan crouched down and grabbed one of

his arms. "Where are the others?"

The ragged man looked at him in disbelief, he was paralyzed by the shock of sudden

events —" Who..."— he stammered — "Who are you?"

Morgan then turned the boy's arm until he heard a snap, it had just dislocated —"

Wrong answer."

The boy then screamed, the blood rushing to his head – "I'm going to kill you, you son

of a bitch, I swear." - Morgan ignored the threats and went to the fingers of the other

hand, the arm that was not yet dislocated.

"I'll ask you the question again, where are they?" He spoke calmly, not expressing any

excitement and just as calmly as he had broken each of his fingers for every wrong

answer given to him.

Until at one point the crying boy told him the location of his companions.

They were in an abandoned hut, used to do drugs.

When Morgan got there, the guys smiled to see him.

"Look there, the deaf old man!" — The boy who had approached him earlier, was the

first to go towards him.

Morgan didn't give him any time to say anything else, he slammed his fists into his

throat, locking it and making him fall to the ground in pain.

He went to his waist and took his knife, then the other three came towards him to attack

him.

Everything had happened in a matter of seconds, the first one that came the man hit his

knee with the knife, he fell without resistance, the second hesitated because of the

fright, Morgan hit him with the cable in his temple knocking him out. The third didn't

even bother to attack him, Morgan just stood there. "Excuse me, sir," said the ragged

man as he lowered his head to avoid looking at the old man and then left looking at the

shack floor.

Morgan then went to the first one he had knocked out, the same one who tackled him.

"Afraid? " He grabbed his hair and lifted his face.

"I'll... kill... you," he said with difficulty.

"What a lack of creativity." Morgan fingered his tongue out of his mouth and laid the

knife blade on it.

"When I say something, answer it, you piece of shit"

Then he ripped out his tongue, the thief screamed as blood spurted, Morgan healed him,

he didn't want to kill anyone there.

The bandit was passed out, logically, the old man had gone to the couch they were

sitting. He looked at all the substances there, refused to use any.

So, in the middle of that dark hut where the moonlight pierced some gaps bathing him

in a lunar glow, he picked up his cell phone and dialed the number he had been given.

They answered the call, but Morgan didn't give them a chance to answer.

"I will go beyond the wall." — right after that he turned off the cell phone.