1 Chapter 1. The story of an ordinary guy.
My name is Beck! And I am just an ordinary guy. I'm just another face in the vast crowd of an ordinary world.
Unremarkable in stature, I blend seamlessly into the tapestry of everyday life. Average height ensures I don't tower over the crowd, and a nondescript appearance keeps me from catching too many wandering eyes. My intelligence falls within the realm of mediocrity—I'm neither a genius nor a fool, just comfortably average. Morally, I navigate the space between good and bad, residing in the gray areas of life.
In essence, my existence is a symphony of normalcy, a melody sung by the chorus of the commonplace.
In the humdrum rhythm of my life, the extraordinary remains elusive. Somehow, I always find myself in places untouched by the extraordinary, living as though I'm a mere wisp of existence, invisible to the narrative of life.
I'm not the type to impose my will, and bullies simply overlook my presence. I don't revel in popularity, yet I'm not relegated to the fringes of social circles. It's as if I exist on the periphery of this world, seamlessly blending into the background, just another face in the crowd—an inconspicuous character in someone else's story.
Curiosity gnaws at me. What would it be like to be the protagonist, the main character in the grand tale of existence? The thought lingers, a tantalizing enigma on the edges of my mind. Perhaps, just maybe, a glimmer of change awaits at the doorstep of the new school.
Today marks the inception of a new chapter in my life as I step into the halls of the high school named after Chingiz Aitmatov. Before you let your imagination take flight, let me dispel any notions of a dramatic or tragic backstory. My journey here is the result of a mundane move, a simple relocation dictated by the proximity of the new house to this institution.
Chingiz Aitmatov—a name resonating with greatness, both as a person and a writer. His literary prowess not only etched his country's name on the global stage but also immortalized the stories of his people. A beacon of inspiration, I harbor a silent wish to emulate his impact. However, the reality stands starkly against such dreams. I seem destined to be a mere spectator, a nobody in the grand scheme of life.
At the entrance of the new school, I stand alone, surrounded by an empty courtyard. The classrooms have absorbed the bustling energy of students settling into their routines. The solitary statue of Chingiz Aitmatov gazes at me, its stony visage seeming to pose questions that echo in the stillness. Who am I? What brings me to this place?
In the face of such queries, I find myself lacking a concise answer. Do I merely exist, navigating the currents of life without a defined purpose? The sculpture's contemplative stare intensifies as if urging me to unearth the narrative of my journey.
Enough with the introspection and philosophical musings. It's time to embrace the present and transition from contemplation to action. After all, isn't that what you enjoy—unraveling the unfolding stories of life?
To my left, a commotion caught my attention. Turning, I spotted a modest structure situated some distance from the entrance, appearing either as a forgotten warehouse or an abandoned restroom.
On the opposite side, a quartet of boys occupied the courts. A particularly robust and muscular figure claimed the central spot, perched on what seemed to be an improvised throne—a worn-out chair, perhaps salvaged from somewhere. The aura surrounding him exuded an undeniable strength, an almost primal force that resonated even from a distance.
Surrounding their self-proclaimed king, three others, equally robust, held court on the periphery. At their feet knelt a fifth boy, thin, pale, and adorned with glasses—a stereotypical nerd, an outcast from the apparent hierarchy.
It was a familiar scene, a tale as old as time. The local tough guys and their designated weakling, a narrative etched into the social fabric from my earliest memories. The powerful exerting dominance over the perceived weak—an unfortunate reality replayed in various forms since kindergarten.
Yet, as the tableau unfolded before me, a nonchalant realization settled in—I had no stake in this narrative. The dynamics of strong versus weak, bully versus bullied, unfolded as they always did, but for once, I found myself indifferent. This was none of my business.
In that moment, the bully king's gaze inadvertently brushed past me, as if I were a mere whisper in the air. His attention swiftly returned to the scene before him—the submissive figure kneeling in apparent deference.
It was a scene played out countless times, and I, in my unremarkable normalcy, went unnoticed. A peculiar comfort washed over me, a perk of my invisibility. The hooligans didn't see me; to them, I was a shadow, a bystander, a nobody.
While there were moments when the anonymity grated on my nerves, the overall tranquility it afforded me was akin to the serenity of the Calm Belt from One Piece. I escaped the clutches of bullies, never bearing the scars of their aggression. I lived a life untouched by bruises or taunts.
Yet, in this cocoon of invisibility, a quiet loneliness lingered. The lack of friends, and the absence of a romantic connection—were the silent costs of my inconspicuous existence. The paradox of safety and solitude.
In the solitude of my thoughts, a distressing scene unfolded before my eyes—a narrative in which I played the passive role of an observer, as always.
"Kanat, little brother. Why the silence? Where's my 1000 soms? We made it clear yesterday that you'd better have the money today," one of the three, a burly figure, placed a predatory hand on Kanat's shoulder, a sinister smile etched across his face. He resembled a bird of prey with a secure hold on its victim.
"Sorry, Samat. My parents are going through financial difficulties right now…" Kanat's voice wavered as he started to mumble an explanation.
"What? You didn't bring our money?" Samat's grip tightened, causing Kanat to cry out in involuntary pain.
"Oh, you nit!" Another guy leaped forward, delivering a swift kick to Kanat's stomach.
"Kha kha kha…" Kanat struggled to suppress a cough, desperately attempting to draw air into his chest, yet his tormentors allowed him no respite.
The third member of the trio stood up, wearing a sinister smile as he added a couple more blows to Kanat's solar plexus. With each strike, Kanat crumpled to the ground, resembling a fish gasping for air on dry land. The brutality unfolded, and I remained a mere spectator, a silent witness to the unfolding tragedy.
The unfolding scene held me in its grip, a powerless spectator standing on the fringes. What could I do, after all? My vulnerability mirrored that of Kanat, if not surpassing it. Stepping into the fray would likely have resulted in me lying on the ground beside him.
It was a sobering acknowledgment—I was just an ordinary guy, devoid of heroic attributes. The power dynamic at play, the brutality unleashed upon Kanat, served as a stark reminder of the chasm between protagonist and bystander. The narrative unfolded, and I remained relegated to the role of a common observer, acutely aware of my limitations.
A sudden scream shattered the stillness of my thoughts, jolting me from my passive observation. Before I could fully register the cry, a rapid commotion approached me. Swift and unanticipated, it raced in my direction. I barely had a moment to react when, in the blink of an eye, a forceful impact struck my left shoulder.
It felt akin to being struck by a speeding train—intense pain radiating through my shoulder. As the realization of the collision settled, anger welled within me. "What the hell?" I wanted to scream, but the words clung to my throat…
Contrary to my expectations of encountering another aggressor, a goddess now stood before me. Her eyes were large and kind, her lips plump and juicy, adorned with long, fluttering eyelashes. Her skin was a flawless expanse of white clarity, and cascading down her shoulders was a mane of long, silky hair.
Never before in my life had I witnessed such radiant beauty. The collision that brought me pain also introduced me to a vision of aesthetic perfection. Stunned, I found myself gazing at this ethereal being who had unexpectedly entered my world.
"Sorry. I didn't notice you," she uttered in an angelic voice, her apology reaching my ears. It was a familiar sentiment, an echo of the usual script. Unseen and unremarkable, this was my norm.
I'd heard those words before. Invisibility was my constant companion. People often collided with me, but they usually just passed by, leaving the incident to fade into obscurity. Rarely did anyone pause to apologize.
"Sorry, I need to hurry," she swiftly added before darting away. As she vanished into the distance, I couldn't shake the feeling that this, too, would be forgotten. With her beauty, she was likely the main character, while I remained a minor figure, a face in the crowd, destined to be overlooked in the grand narrative of life.
The girl approached the menacing group of hooligans, unflinching in her resolve as she positioned herself boldly in front of the beleaguered figure on the ground.
"What are you bastards doing?" she shouted, her gaze piercing the local king seated on his makeshift throne.
"Damn, is this the princess?" one of the trio exclaimed, unveiling her title. A fitting name for someone so regal in appearance. In the hierarchy of high school, a princess surely held the mantle of the most beautiful.
"What's she doing here? Shouldn't she be at the dance club right now?" another hooligan questioned, pointing towards an open window on the third floor of the school.
"Listen. Did she happen to come running from the dance room when she saw us from the window?" the third speculated, as whispers of intrigue swirled among the trio. The unexpected entrance of this apparent princess into the scene added a layer of complexity to the unfolding drama.
My gaze shifted to the girl, and I observed that she was visibly out of breath, beads of sweat forming on her body and face. It became evident that she wasn't dressed in the typical school uniform; instead, she wore a crop top and short shorts over black tights—standard attire for dance classes.
Considering her physical state and choice of clothing, it seemed plausible that she might have spotted the distressing scene from the third-floor window of the school's dance room and hurried down to intervene. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, lending credibility to the hooligan's speculative whispers. The unexpected heroine, it seemed, had emerged from the dance floor to confront the bullies.
"Aaliyah, don't interfere. It's none of your business," the king declared rudely, dismissing the girl without even a glance.
"Ulan. How dare you do this to your classmate? You won't get away with this!" the girl retorted, her voice laced with determination.
"Haha! Who would be interested in stopping me?" Ulan laughed, rising from his chair with a slow, deliberate pace. The air grew tense as he advanced menacingly toward the girl, the confrontation escalating in the shadow of the silent onlookers.
For a fleeting moment, an instinctive urge to intervene and shield the girl from the impending threat surged within me. However, I swiftly suppressed those thoughts, reminding myself of my inconspicuous status—no protagonist, just a bystander. I opted to leave the unfolding drama to others, convinced that someone would step in.
"I!" A resounding voice echoed from the second floor of the school. My attention shifted, and I witnessed a well-built, handsome guy standing confidently in a window. His straight and thick eyebrows, clear eyes, straight nose, and athletic physique all hinted at the quintessential main character.
As expected, the guy in the window fit the archetype perfectly—handsome, well-built, and fair. To the surprise of the hooligans and the girl, he leaped out of the second-floor window, landing on the ground with graceful ease. The entrance of the main character into the scene promised a shift in the dynamics of the confrontation.
The trio of hooligans, including their leader, grew visibly tense, taking a step back as the main character, Azamat, made his entrance.
"Azamat, what do you need? Don't interfere," the leader muttered, but Azamat paid him no mind and approached the girl.
"Miss Aaliyah, what are you doing here?" Azamat addressed the girl in a surprisingly polite tone.
"You shouldn't do things like that. You weren't hurt, were you? What would happen if you got hurt?" he continued, genuine concern evident in his words.
"Everything was OK. I could handle everything myself," the girl retorted stubbornly, turning up her nose.
Azamat sighed quietly. "Please don't do that again. You could have gotten hurt."
The girl disregarded the guy and focused on assisting Kanat, helping him to his feet.
"Are you okay? Don't let these freaks do this to you. If anything, contact me," she declared proudly, sticking out her chest and pointing confidently at herself.
She possessed an intriguing quirkiness, an unconventional quality that only added to her greatness. Kanat, despite the aid he received from both the girl and the guy, slowly stood up and, without a word, wandered away from the scene.
A sense of ungratefulness lingered. Why didn't Kanat express his gratitude? Then again, understanding his perspective, it dawned on me that perhaps he saw it as a temporary reprieve. What about the next time? Would they come to his rescue again? Could he rely on them consistently? The shame of the situation might have far-reaching consequences, only fueling the hooligans' anger further. Was this intervention truly a service, or had it inadvertently caused more harm than good?
"Hey, Azamat!!!"
The leader of the hooligans, seemingly irked by Azamat's disregard, took a step forward, his face turning an angry shade of purple.
"Are you ignoring me?" he spat out, closing the distance between them.
"Get lost!" Azamat retorted, his cold gaze arresting the four bullies in their tracks. Sweat started to bead on the leader's face.
"Azamat, don't show off! You may be strong but don't make me angry. I have friends among the 'Snakes' gang," Ulan threatened, turning away without waiting for a response. His three accomplices hastened to follow.
Unfazed by the hollow threats, Azamat continued his concern for the girl, questioning whether she had sustained any injuries.
I couldn't help but marvel at Azamat's composure and the power he held over the hooligans. The scene unfolded like a daydream—a hero emerging, effortlessly thwarting the bullies, and coming to the aid of the damsel in distress. Yet, I remained grounded in reality. Such feats were reserved for those with a different script, a script I was not a part of. Just an ordinary guy, dreaming of the extraordinary.
The enigma of Azamat and the girl's relationship lingered, a puzzle I couldn't decipher. Why did he speak to her with such politeness? Were they acquaintances, or perhaps a couple embroiled in a quarrel? The questions tugged at my curiosity, but I let them fade away, realizing that the scene had resolved itself once again, without my involvement.
One last glance at the beautiful girl and her knight, and I turned away, leaving the uncharted dynamics of their connection behind. It was time for me to navigate the corridors toward my new class, a mere spectator in the grand tapestry of the school's unfolding stories.
***
First I went to the staff room and met my new teacher. It turned out to be a rather pretty young girl, not yet in her thirties. She turned out to be extremely kind and friendly. She gave me a little tour of the school while we walked around the school together and resolved all the issues with the documents regarding my transfer.
By 12.45 we had completed all questions regarding my transfer.
- Now let's go to class. It's time for you to meet your new classmates. The teacher led me through a long hallway into my new class.
- Here we are. Introduce yourself well! And good luck! She raised her fist in support and entered the classroom first.
Before I even stepped into the classroom, a sense of unease gripped me, accompanied by the muffled noise and commotion emanating from within. Was it a premonition, a hint that something significant was about to unfold?
The internal dialogue continued as I reassured myself with a touch of skepticism. "Come on. I'm just being dramatic. What could happen to me? It is me. The most ordinary person, no one, an insignificant character, nothing can happen to me. Nothing can change. Nothing will change. Everything will be business as usual."
Yet, a nagging feeling persisted, an intangible sense that the routine of my life was on the verge of a shift.
With a deep breath, I took that pivotal step into the classroom, and an abrupt silence ensued. Dozens of eyes locked onto me, a collective gaze that, for a moment, felt piercing. Soon enough, the attention waned as everyone returned to their individual tasks.
As expected, the classroom scene unfolded with a semblance of normalcy. Despite the initial stir upon my entrance, the transient attention swiftly faded, and the routine resumed. The teacher's introduction and my subsequent self-introduction were mere formalities, unlikely to alter the established order of my unremarkable existence.
"Well, of course, everything is as usual," I mused, settling into the familiar groove of my ordinary life, where change remained an elusive concept, and the mundane prevailed.
The teacher broke the stillness, introducing me to the class with an expectant look, and encouraging me to share a bit about myself.
"Guys, meet our new classmate. He transferred to this class and will study together with you," the teacher announced.
Despite the certainty that such introductions seldom changed anything, I decided to play along with the friendly teacher and spoke up.
"My name is Beck, and I am just…" I began, aware that, despite this formal introduction, the narrative of my life would likely continue on its familiar, unremarkable course.
"Is that you?!" The sudden scream jolted through the air, shattering the quiet ambiance of the classroom. Once again, all eyes turned toward me, awaiting an explanation.
I pivoted to face the source of the outburst and found her—the Princess, the ethereal beauty of the school. She rose from her seat, pointing directly at me.
"So, you study in our class? Great. I haven't found you recently. Sorry again for that incident. I will definitely repay you," she exclaimed, offering a bright and pure smile.
As her gaze met mine, the collective eyes in the room took on a darker, angrier hue. Among them were the eyes of the four hooligans, the Princess's knight, and several other equally robust individuals.
However, an unexpected calm enveloped me; fear was absent, replaced by a sense of anticipation.
Another thought spun in my head—had somebody finally remembered me?
Had I escaped the confines of being a minor character?
Could it be that, in this moment, I had transitioned into the role of the Protagonist?
