1 End of struggle..? 1

"It's been years since I've felt this helpless."I

thought as I looked at the blood stains in my hands which apparently I coughed up.

I always wanted to be in control maybe this came from the struggles I went through as a child.

At ten years I had to be my own guardian since some suicide bomber claimed my parents lives.Aunts and uncles materialized from the woodwork some of them I've never met, their concern a poorly veiled. They descended upon our home like vultures, their eyes gleaming not with grief, but with greed.

My parents, successful architects, had built a comfortable life. Now, that life was being picked apart, piece by meticulous piece. The family lawyer, a weasel of a man with eyes that darted everywhere but at me, explained in legalese that couldn't hide the cruelty – everything went to "relatives," a term that suddenly excluded me. The house, the savings. I, a child, was deemed an "inconvenience," a burden best left to the "professionals" at the no name orphanage.

One day, a meticulously dressed couple with smiles that felt practiced walked through the orphanage doors. They weren't interested in the older kids, their eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. There was a strange urgency in their gaze, a hidden agenda beneath the practiced pleasantries. A month later, I was whisked away, not to a loving home, but to a gilded cage.

The orphanage, a goldmine for the truly desperate, became their hunting ground. I, a healthy ten-year-old, was their perfect match.

The facade of a loving family crumbled fast. Every shared meal, every forced movie night, was laced with veiled threats, constant reminders of the "debt" I owed. "You wouldn't be here if it weren't for us," they'd hiss, their kindness a cruel performance.

Five years. Five years of emotional manipulation, of being treated like a possession, not a person. Then, the inevitable blow. Lily's health took a nosedive. My blood work, conveniently "tested regularly" throughout my stay, confirmed a perfect match. "It's time you repay us," they declared, their voices devoid of a single shred of parental affection.

The operating room was sterile, cold. As the anesthesia stole my awareness, a single, bitter thought echoed in my fading mind: I wasn't saved; I was sacrificed. Now, weak and bandaged, I lay in a sterile recovery room, the silence a stark contrast to the storm raging within me. I was no longer a "debtor."

The scars on my stomach were stark reminders of my "debt." The "caregivers," as they liked to be called, had vanished as quickly as they'd appeared. Gone to a new country, a new life, they'd declared, leaving the "burden" behind. The burden, of course, was me, a single kidney lighter, and tossed back into the very system they'd plucked me from just a few short years before.

The orphanage wouldn't take me back, citing "lack of space." Space, that seemed, was readily available for the "healthy" children, but not a spare cot for a damaged one. So, the streets became my new home, the concrete jungle a harsh yet strangely familiar environment. Here, survival was a daily battle, a constant hustle for scraps and a corner of cardboard to call my own.

Resentment, a bitter seed, took root within me. Power, that was the key. Power to never be a victim again. But power resided in gleaming offices and sterile labs, places far removed from my cardboard home. My only weapon: the dusty shelves of the local library.

The librarian saw past my matted hair and tattered clothes. With a silent nod of understanding, she allowed me access.

Yet, within those hallowed halls, a truth gnawed at me – the library alone wouldn't be enough.The books whispered of complex theories and equations, but their application required a foundation I lacked. I needed to go to school the public ones to be exact.

Desperation, a bitter companion, fueled my resolve. Begging became an art, practiced on street corners, outside restaurants and anywhere there was human traffick. The sting of rejection was a constant companion, but with each crumpled coin that landed in my palm, a flicker of hope ignited. Stealing, a desperate measure, became a last resort, a shameful act justified by te need to survive.

But these weren't the only tools in my arsenal. Years on the streets had honed a different kind of skill – the art of subtle manipulation. A carefully constructed sob story, a well-timed feigned limp, a strategic tug at the heartstrings of the wealthy – these tactics filled the gaps left by begging and petty theft.

Three years blurred into a relentless pursuit of knowledge. Each stolen moment, each borrowed book, felt like a brick laid in the foundation of my own future.

The streets, however, weren't the only source of danger. The desperation that fueled my thievery also made me a target. Being young and small, I was easy prey for older, more ruthless predators. The very act of accumulating money became a constant risk.

That's when the desperate idea struck me. The librarian, a silent witness to my daily struggles, was the only person who seemed to possess a shred of humanity in this concrete jungle.But could she be trusted?I took a gamble.Her gaze, though knowing, held no judgment. On a particularly bleak day, with a stolen wad of cash, I hesitantly approached her.

With a weary nod, she produced a worn leather pouch from a hidden drawer. "For your education," she rasped, her voice rough with unshed tears. "But please," she added, her gaze locking with mine, "be careful, child. These streets don't forgive mistakes."

From that day on, the library became not just a refuge, but a secret vault. Each stolen coin, a testament to my desperation.

Still, I persisted. Three years blurred into a relentless pursuit of knowledge. Each stolen moment, each borrowed book, felt like a brick laid in the foundation of my own future.

One day, I saw a poster, a government scholarship to a prestigious university, awarded solely on the merit of an entrance exam.

But as always I was cheated...