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Arthur had never imagined himself capable of accomplishing anything significant or having any real impact on others. He was a cowardly, selfish, and obstinate man, perpetually inclined to follow only his own personal interest. Those unsavory traits could, perhaps, be credited to the woman who birthed him whose controlling tendencies had sculpted much of his disposition.
His childhood was enveloped in his mother’s suffocating embrace, not one of luxury or indulgence with servants at his beck and call, but one of relentless surveillance. Every step, every word, was calculated and restrained by her grasp.
So it came as no surprise that, upon reaching adulthood, he vanished without a glance. That was his revenge, his mother’s most precious and exorbitant possession had slipped through her fingers without so much as a word of gratitude or a token of appreciation.
The life of an eighteen-year-old, penniless and without a roof over his head, could be summed up in only one word: agony. University debt was a problem, surviving day-to-day was another one. A three-hour sleep became routine, and he had rested on the curbside more times than he could recall.
Perhaps by divine irony or damn luck, he managed to get a job shortly after graduation, an editorial position at a well-known publishing house. A paid job, a modest home, and meals, well, just meals.
Arthur would never claim himself to be affable, sociable, or eager to leave a good first impression. In fact, he was the polar opposite. But at least he had enough sense to avoid meaningless conflict. That’s why it was so inconceivable to him that he would be beaten the shit out of him in a dim alley by a group of strangers over some ludicrous claim about "silencing him” and "teaching him a lesson."
Being an editor meant handling stories, reviewing content, and deciding how it should be presented. If asked what “dangers” came with it, Arthur would’ve laughed in your face and replied, “The fuck is dangerous about sitting and typing all day? Back pain?” But let’s say, hypothetically, he had played a crucial role in publishing an exposé about a prominent pharmaceutical company. Let’s say that, following the article, their stocks plummeted dramatically, and the corporation faced imminent collapse. Let’s say some influential dude found out that Arthur was responsible for publishing the piece—and sent thugs after him.
If it had been a kidnapping or a homicide, perhaps it would’ve made more narrative sense. But Arthur suspected they didn’t want to stir up more controversy than necessary. After all, a headline like “Editor Who Exposed Company X Found Dead” appearing just days after the exposé would make it too obvious. Even a child would know it wasn’t him tightening his own hanging rope.
It was past 11 p.m., maybe later. The path home from the office was unusually dark and desolate. Just as his instincts told him to switch routes, he was yanked into a nearby alley, and a punch like a lightning bolt cracked across his jaw, he was sure a tooth had been knocked out.
His assailants were swift and efficient. By the time they vanished, Arthur absolutely believed he might die then and there. Pain surged through his body, pulsing, vicious, unrelenting. Tears and blood blurred his vision, rendering the world a chaotic smear. He could no longer distinguish which parts of him were intact and which were fractured beyond repair. But one spot throbbed with a unique, nauseating agony, his right hand-his writing hand-likely broken. Had he not been gasping for air just to stay conscious, he might’ve burst into laughter, that his existence had offended someone so badly.
Death had never frightened him. No. To him, it was salvation, a door to the unknown, a means to escape everything without regret. But to die from a beating, at someone else’s hand at that, not by his own volition, was truly infuriating.
And now? When he had, for once, managed to live? When he finally had a place to call his own, free from a woman’s disappointed and pitying eyes? When he hadn’t yet fed the stray cats at his apartment gate? They’d mewl all night.
A sharp, choking sensation surged up his throat, and he winced before spitting a pool of blood onto the pavement. He genuinely wished he could shut his eyes and succumb to the void, but after resisting that temptation, he forced his swollen lids open, only to see a pair of white shoes, now stained with blood. His blood.
“What the…” he murmured hoarsely, his throat parched and metallic with the taste of iron. He dared not move, every fiber in his body screamed in protest.
Raising his tear-blurred eyes, he saw the white shoes, a floral dress, and the face of a woman, certainly no older than him. Her expression was hardly readable.
For a fleeting moment, Arthur thought she was a ghost—a spirit, something he had never once believed in. But caught in this half-dead, half-conscious state, held together only by sheer fucking magic and a throbbing heart, he had no better explanation. Her long, snow-white, slightly wavy hair did little to disprove his theory that “I’ve died, gone to Hell, and met a ghost.”
A hand extended toward him. Arthur snapped out of his delirium and used what little strength he had left to shove it away. He growled, “Fuck off home, kid.”
“…You’re still alive,” the woman replied, her voice clear, melodic, and unnervingly calm.
“Fuck. Off” Arthur whispered, barely audible. He tried to twist his face into a scowl he often used to scare off children, but in his bloodied, tattered state, he looked nothing short of pitiful.
“I’ll clean and bandage your wounds. I have some gauze and basic medical supplies,” she said, already removing her bag and rummaging through it.
His head spun, seriously? A random girl had emerged from the shadows to play paramedic while his heart was hanging by a thread? It was almost blasphemous.
"Are you deaf? Or just plain stupid? You don’t think I’ll beat you up so you end up looking like me too?" he snarled, spitting a bloodied glob in the girl's direction, though it barely reached her feet before he choked on his own mix of saliva and blood. Fucking hell. Now what could be better than being beaten to death? It’s having a fucking audience that skipped the boring part and showed up right at the finale, watching him had his last breath.
“Please, stop moving. Let me help you,” the girl pleaded, stepping closer. Her determination hung thick in the air, and Arthur could already tell that crude insults and threats wouldn’t be enough to shake it.
He let out a breath (if not a sigh, then something close to it) and shut his eyes, mentally cycling through a list of possible motives. Let's see: maybe she was a human trafficker waiting for him to drop dead so she could harvest his relatively “”undamaged” organs. Or perhaps a doctor (or med student, he didn't see her face very well) practicing fieldwork on a dying body. Or worse yet, just some retard with a bleeding heart and a savior complex.
A sudden warmth touched his cheek. Arthur opened his eyes and found himself staring up into a delicate, young, feminine face. Her features were striking, almost ethereal. Jet-black irises contrasted sharply against porcelain skin and snow-white hair. Her eyes stared deep into his soul, unblinking, emotionless, more like someone inspecting a wounded animal than a dying man.
“I’ll disinfect the open wounds and bandage them. Please hold still,” she said gently, offering a soft, reassuring smile. As if that would somehow dull the pain.
Up close, Arthur could see her more clearly. He didn’t know shit about fashion or makeup, but this girl looked fairly attractive (to today’s beauty standards anyway) with ivory, flawless skin and refined features. He caught the faintest trace of perfume, sweet, soft, subtle. Fittingly, the very same adjectives that could’ve described her.
“A prinfuckingcess” Arthur thought, not without the bitterness. He didn’t exactly hate the rich, but it would be a lie to say that he hadn't secretly wished bankruptcy and failure upon a few of his silver-spoon acquaintances. Come on now, human primal natures are envy and selfishness, it’s not like those people were good anyway.
“My name is-”
“Don’t bother. I don’t want to know. I’ve got no money to repay you.”
He cut her off before she could finish. It was true. He didn’t care about who she was nor had the money. She was the one insisting on playing doctor-patient in this alley.
“I’m not asking for money... .or gratitude,” she replied, visibly hurt. Her voice softened, her lashes lowered. It stung her, just a little.
Arthur held back the question “Then why?” forming on his lips and let the silence stretch between them. She seemed to sense it, or maybe she was still stinging from the rejection, because she didn’t speak again.
She moved quickly, efficiently. Soon his face and most of his exposed wounds were wrapped. The sting of disinfectant against torn flesh made him wince and hiss, but it was a good sign. He could still feel, still stay conscious. If someone rushed him to a hospital now, he might actually fucking survive this.
“…Arm,” he muttered, nodding weakly toward his right arm-the one throbbing with unbearable pain. She seemed confused, but then understood. Her fingers brushed his wrist, light as silk, tentative but careful.
“It’s broken,” she whispered, then rummaged through her bag, likely searching for something to act as a splint. After a few seconds of futility, she frowned: “Can you wait here? I’ll find something to stabilize your arm. I’ll call an ambulance too.”
“Took you long enough. How come your first instinct at seeing an injured citizen wasn’t to call for help but to play the medic?” Arthur sneered. No one laughed.
“I’ll be quick. Just hold on, okay?” she said, rising to her feet. Her knees were stained with dirt and blood. She gave him one last look before vanishing, out of the alley, out of his sight, taking the floral scent with her.
Arthur wondered what expression she’d wear when she returned to find nothing but an empty wall. No grateful, bandaged dog waiting loyally. Irritation? Disappointment? (he was already familiar with that.) Worry? (bullshit) The bleeding had stopped. No one would know where he’d gone, or that he’d disappear into nothingness.
Disappearing.
That was the one thing he was good at, the only thing he could do.
Vanishing from control, from the golden cage, from responsibility and suffering.
That’s why he loathed attachment, why he evaded every connection that ever tried to tether him. Relationships made him regret, made him second-guess, made him hesitate. And feeling was a torment he never asked for. That’s why he didn’t want to commit suicide at his home, by the time someone stumbling across his corpse, it would have already been rotting to the bone.
He dragged himself down the night road, street lights flickering above like dying stars. If someone crossed his path now (and didn’t immediately run in horror at his appearance), he wouldn’t be able to tell whether they were a person or a lamppost.
Tonight, there were stars. A rarity in this polluted city. Perhaps even the celestial felt sorry for his dogshit life.
Life had nearly slipped through his fingers… and then, somehow, found its way back into his palms. As if Death forgot to collect him tonight. Arthur chuckled, a low, bitter sound, at his own damn persistent.
For a split moment, he thought maybe fate wasn’t as cruel as he believed. Maybe, for once, the universe was rotating with him at the center.
“…Right. Gotta feed the cats.”
Now, should he go home and take a shower first or stop by the convenience store?