1 A Miserable Life

Pain...

Pain and cold was all Deban could feel as he endured the relentless punches and kicks from the three children who had cornered him in the dimly lit alleyway. He couldn't understand why they targeted him or held such animosity towards him.

All he knew was that their fists and feet kept pounding him, a constant reminder of his own worthlessness.

"How did I end up in this situation?"

As he winced in agony, he retraced his steps back to the beginning of the day, attempting to unravel the chain of events that led him here.

If you ever searched for the term "absolutely miserable" on the internet, there's a good chance you'd come across a picture of Deban.

He fit the mold of a destitute orphan residing in a government-funded shelter, trapped in the cycle of poverty. Deban had no idea about his origins—his parents remained a mystery, their fate unknown.

Weak and frail, he existed on the fringes of the orphanage, an outcast among his peers. Hunger gnawed at his belly as he struggled to secure enough food during mealtimes, leaving him perpetually famished and drained.

As if life hadn't already dealt him enough blows, Deban recently discovered that his persistent coughing fits and constant malaise were symptoms of a terminal illness. After relentlessly coughing up mouthfuls of blood each day, he managed to persuade the orphanage director to arrange a visit from a doctor.

The diagnosis was grim, etched vividly in Deban's memory—the doctor's expression bland and indifferent as he delivered the devastating news.

"Sorry, kid. It appears you're suffering from an extremely rare case of stage 3 infantile lung cancer, and it seems to be spreading uncontrollably."

The doctor paused, a sigh escaping his lips, as he observed the resignation on Deban's face—a child who had already surrendered to life's cruel fate, barely fourteen years old.

The doctor wondered what unimaginable hardships had led the boy to embrace such desolation. He continued, his voice tinged with regret, "If we had caught this a year or two earlier, there might have been a glimmer of hope through chemotherapy and surgery. But at this stage, it's too advanced, so all I we can do is try to reduce the pain and wait for the end."

The orphanage director scowled at the doctor's words, knowing that his own negligence played a part in this situation. He had been disregarding Deban's repeated pleas for medical attention over the past five years.

Yet, he found himself struggling to meet all the needs of a hundred hungry and needy children. He was constrained by a meager budget and skeletal staff to support him. He had long abandoned his youthful dreams of improving the children's lives. Years of struggling had forced him to settle for mediocrity and and he accepted that nothing he did would change the system.

With a heavy sigh, he approached the doctor, his hand resting on the doctor's shoulder. "Thank you for coming, doctor. It's unfortunate that Deban is so sick, but at least we now understand the cause. Let me escort you out—I'm aware we pay you by the minute, and I don't wish to waste any more of your time when there's nothing more we can do."

The doctor exchanged glances between the tired smile of the orphanage director and lost expression of the frail child destined for an early demise, devoid of hope. He sighed once more, a deeper exhalation this time, and left the room under the director's guidance, leaving Deban to stew in the unsettling silence.

BAM!

The sound of the door slamming shut jolted Deban from his thoughts. Misery had been his lifelong companion, so learning that he would meet a wretched end sooner than anticipated didn't come as a surprise. In a way, he found solace in knowing that the endless torment would soon cease.

"Might as well savor some fresh air while I can still breathe on my own," Deban murmured to himself as he rose from his seat and as decided to go for a walk out of the orphanage, stepping into the bustling streets.

A shiver coursed through his body as he opened the door, the rare occurrence of snowfall lending an icy touch to the air. While his city rarely witnessed snow, it always grew bitterly cold during winter. Ignoring the biting chill that assaulted his lungs and face, Deban welcomed the pain—it served as a reminder that he was still alive, at least for now.

With no particular destination in mind, Deban walked aimlessly, his thoughts a storm of despair and resignation. Lost in his own desolation, he took a wrong turn, eventually finding himself trapped in a desolate alleyway. He knew he had messed up when he noticed the three larger boys closing in on him with mischievous smiles.

Panic surged through his veins, propelling him into a desperate attempt to escape. Ducking behind trash cans and weaving between parked cars, his feeble body and fragile lungs couldn't carry him far. Ultimately, exhaustion took its toll, and Deban crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath.

"Hey, you ugly freak! Why make it harder for yourself and us by running away?" jeered one of the boys, his nose resembling a cat's dump. The trio swiftly closed in on Deban, encircling him as he struggled to catch his breath, his body huddled in a fetal position.

It was all too familiar—a routine beating awaited him, just as it always did. Deban resigned himself to endure, knowing that patience would eventually exhaust the bullies, prompting them to seek fresh targets for their torment. But deep down he felt angry, he felt resentful and frustrated.

He felt more anger towards himself than even the bullies that were using his body as glorified punching bag.

"Why am I weak?

Why am I poor?

Why am I so useless and dying?"

Deban asked himself with tears in his eyes as he kept getting beaten.

Amidst the relentless onslaught, Deban's mind registered a peculiar sigh—an echo within his thoughts, simultaneously familiar and foreign, laced with compassion for his wretched existence.

Then, as if the voice had been waiting for the opportune moment, it posed a question: "Aren't you tired of living in sin? Don't you yearn for a life of virtue and dignity?"

The query startled Deban, momentarily eclipsing the pain and cold that gripped his battered form. Raising his head, he strained to locate the source of this mysterious voice.

Yet, his movement proved untimely. Before Deban could make sense of the situation, the boy with the nose akin to a dump left by a cat landed a swift kick squarely on his chin, rendering him unconscious.

"Damn, he's out cold this time," remarked one of the boys with elephant-like ears protruding from his head. "It's boring if he doesn't even feel it and squirm as we beat him. Let's go. I heard a rat scurrying by—we should chase it and see if we can catch and kill it," he suggested, prompting the others to nod in agreement.

With that, the bullies ceased their assault, leaving Deban sprawled, unconscious, on the cold pavement of the alley.

Time blurred in a haze as Deban remained motionless, abandoned to the solitude of the alley. Gradually, snowflakes descended from the heavens, transforming the scene into a morbidly beautiful wintry scene.

It felt like an eternity had passed when Deban stirred awake, jolted by the nibbling sensation of a rat gnawing at his toes. Summoning what strength he could muster, he shook his legs, managing to kick it away before brushing off the thin layer of snow that had accumulated on his frail body during his unconsciousness.

The cold still seeped into his bones, and the throbbing ache of his bruises persisted, yet his mind fixated on the enigmatic voice he had encountered before losing consciousness.

"Are you there, voice?" Deban whispered, half-expecting his words to dissipate into the frigid air. To his surprise, a sense of anticipation welled within him, a glimmer of hope flickering in his weary heart.

He laughed, the sound tinged with both disbelief and yearning. Had he truly reached the point of delusion? Perhaps the relentless beatings, combined with his terminal illness, had finally driven him to madness. But as he contemplated his plight, a resolve settled over him, nudging him to take action. Even if he became mad, if he could escape his current life he would do anything.

With a deep breath, Deban mustered his feeble strength and let out a resounding scream, his voice echoing through the silent alleyways. "Of course, I want to be free and live a life of virtue and dignity!"

The words hung in the wintry air, the sound fading into an eerie stillness. Moments passed, devoid of any response, and Deban's hope wavered. He stumbled out of the alleyway, his unsteady steps carrying him away from the site of his recent torment. Yet, just as despair began to wrap its cold tendrils around his spirit, the voice resurfaced, piercing through his inner turmoil.

"In that case, seize this chance, and overcome your sins to ascend to the top," the voice beckoned, its cadence a mix of mystery and guidance.

Deban shook, shocked by the voice once again. The voice's words held a tantalizing promise, an invitation to transform his existence. But before he could fully comprehend the implications, a blinding light pierced the darkness, hurtling toward him with alarming speed. The screech of brakes filled the air, followed by a sickening collision.

"Blam! Splat!"

Deban's world went dark, a void of nothingness engulfing his senses. In the final moments of his consciousness, fragments of his life played out like flickering memories. The beatings, the cold, the terminal illness—each adversity he faced, he thought one of those would be his end but instead it converged into a single, ironic climax.

Truck-kun, as if a morbid reaper, had claimed yet another soul.