"Didn't I tell you to hold the 8055 number for my vehicle?"
Slap.
The sound was sharp, cutting through the ambient hum of the office lobby. I didn't see the hand coming. In my world, there is no such thing as a "warning." There is only the sudden impact, the heat blooming on my skin, and the ringing in my ears that follows.
"Why can't you do something so simple?"
Slap.
The second strike hit the exact same spot. A dull throb began to pulse in my jaw. I felt my head snap to the right, and the heavy black glasses I wore to hide my sightless eyes were sent spinning into the distance.
Without them, I felt naked. Those glasses were my only shield. Not because they helped me see, but because they stopped people from having to look at the milky, scarred mess of my eyes.
"Do you even know who I am?"
Slap.
I tried to find my footing, but my left leg, the one that had been twisted and shorter than the other since birth, buckled beneath me. I reached out blindly, my fingers brushing the cold, smooth edge of the reception desk to keep myself from sprawling onto the floor.
"I could buy this entire building if I wanted to. You think a freak like you has the right to waste my time?"
Slap.
This was my routine. This was the tax I paid for existing. Whenever someone else made a mistake, I was the one who paid for it in bruises. Everyone in this office, from the high-ranking directors to the interns, seemed to share a silent agreement: if something goes wrong, blame the blind guy.
I could hear the crowd gathering. I heard the shuffling of expensive shoes on the marble floor and the stifled giggles of the secretaries. They weren't horrified by the sight of a grown man striking a disabled worker. They were enjoying the show. To them, this was free entertainment.
I wanted to hit back. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the throat out of the man whose breath smelled of expensive coffee and arrogance. But I couldn't move. I could feel the pressure in the air around him. It was thick and suffocating. That was the aura of "Prayers."
In this world, Prayers weren't just words whispered in the dark. They were a literal force. Those born with high potential could manifest the favor of the heavens into physical power, wealth, and status. This man had enough stored Prayers to crush me like a moth. To him, I wasn't even a human being. I was just a defective tool that needed to be discarded.
Slap.
Why did God even bother bringing me into this world? Was I created just to be a punching bag for the blessed?
Slap.
The orphanage director once told me that they found me in a cardboard box at the gate. There was no note and no name. They only knew I was roughly two days old because the umbilical cord was still fresh and poorly tied. My parents hadn't even waited for me to heal before they threw me away.
Slap.
Maybe they saw the list of my defects and realized I wasn't worth the effort. A blind boy with a mangled leg, a stutter, and a face that looked like it had been crushed in the womb.
Slap.
By this time, the man's anger seemed to be fading. His strikes were becoming rhythmic and lazy, as if he were simply bored of the sensation of my skin against his palm. I didn't make a sound. I had learned a long time ago that crying only gave them a sense of victory.
I was fully blind, partially deaf, and physically broken. A "combo offer" of tragedies.
Slap.
Wait. That strike came from a different angle.
"Why didn't you block the number like I told you?"
That was Gupta, my senior manager. I recognized the nasal, whining tone of his voice. He was the one who had actually taken the bribe. He had sold that specific license plate number to a different wealthy client and pocketed the cash. Now, he was using me as a shield to protect his own skin.
"S-s-sorry," I stammered. The word was a reflex. It was the only word I could say without my stutter making me sound like a broken record.
"These disability-quota workers are the worst," I heard someone whisper nearby. "They can't do anything properly. They just sit there taking up space and breathing our air."
My eyes were dry. It wasn't because it didn't hurt. It felt like my face was being held against a hot stove. But I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
Eventually, the man grew tired of hitting me. He spat on the floor near my feet and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing with the confidence of someone who would never know hunger or pain.
I spent the next several minutes on my hands and knees, my fingers sweeping over the cold tile until I found my glasses. They had been stepped on. The plastic frames were snapped in two, and the dark lenses had been ground into a fine powder. I shoved the broken pieces into my pocket and stood up, using the wall to support my weight.
I worked the rest of the day in a haze. My jaw throbbed with every breath I took. When the clock finally signaled the end of the shift, I gathered my things and headed for the exit.
As I reached the stairs of the office entrance, someone intentionally shouldered me.
"Move it, eyesore."
I didn't have time to find the railing. I tumbled down the stone steps, my bad leg twisting painfully under my weight. I landed hard on the sidewalk, my chin slamming into the concrete.
I lay there for a long time, the taste of copper filling my mouth. I waited for someone to stop. I waited for a hand on my shoulder. But all I heard was the constant, indifferent rhythm of the city. People stepped over my legs. Some even complained that I was blocking the path.
In a world where you can just conjure a Prayer to God to get what you want, kindness has no value. Why waste a single drop of divine energy on a "Low-Born" who can't offer anything in return?
I pushed myself up, my palms raw and bleeding. I pulled out my folding white stick, but it had been bent during the fall. It was useless now, but I held onto it anyway. It was the only thing that signaled to the world that I couldn't see them.
The walk to the crossroad was a nightmare. The city was a mess of sensory overload. The roar of the engines, the high-pitched chime of Prayer-bells, and the constant, crushing pressure of the crowds.
People didn't move for me. They saw the blind man and expected him to sense their presence and get out of the way. My stick was kicked out of my hand three times. Each time I reached down to find it, people stepped on my fingers. They didn't apologize. They scolded me for being in their way.
I finally reached the intersection. I could feel the heavy vibration of the traffic in my chest. I stood there, trying to listen for the change in the light.
A group of teenagers was standing nearby. I could smell the sharp, chemical scent of the cheap "Speed Prayers" they were using to stay awake and party.
"Hey, look at this freak," one of them said, his voice cracking. "He's lost his glasses. Look at his eyes."
"Disgusting," another one laughed.
I tried to shuffle past them, bowing my head to hide my face. My broken stick brushed against one of their shoes.
"Don't touch me with that thing!" the boy yelled.
I felt a sudden, massive surge of Prayer energy. It wasn't much, just a common shove reinforced by a bit of divine spark, but to my weakened body, it was like being hit by a car.
I didn't fall onto the pavement. I felt my feet leave the ground entirely. I was pushed directly into the flow of the evening traffic.
DHAP.
The impact was heavy and final. There was no sharp pain, just a massive, bone-deep thud that seemed to stop the world.
I felt myself being tossed into the air. For a few seconds, I was weightless. The wind rushed past my ears, drowning out the sounds of the city and the voices of the people who hated me. The pain in my jaw, the ache in my twisted leg, and the stinging in my eyes all vanished.
I tumbled through the darkness, feeling my bones shatter and my lungs collapse. I knew I was dying. I could feel the life leaking out of me as I hit the asphalt with a final, wet crunch.
But I wasn't afraid. I wasn't angry.
As the coldness of the road seeped into my skin and the darkness of my world finally became absolute, I felt a strange, overwhelming sense of relief. The burden of my body was finally being lifted. The voices were finally quiet.
Finally, I thought as my heart gave its last, stuttering beat. I don't have to be me anymore.
The world went silent, and for the first time in twenty-five years, I was at peace.