Lightning flashed across the clouded sky, as rain hammered down on the cemetery. In that brief moment, the boy who stood felt that nothing would ever be fair.
"Is it so wrong to be average?" he muttered to himself as rain dripped down his body, the cold piercing his skin.
The question echoed throughout the cemetery–then carried along with the blowing wind.
Unanswered, as if mocking him.
"No... I'm worse than that."
He swallowed hard, admitting to what he truly was.
"They preached that we're all born equal," his voice cracked on his last words, refusing to accept it with every fibre of his being.
"Yeah. Must be nice," Vergil clenched his jaw.
He never cared about money or status.
It was something he lacked.
Talent.
"Why... why was it like this?" he blurted out, his voice cracking. The rain didn't answer. It never did.
His knees hit the earth, mud soaking into his cheap pants. He clutched the soaked grass, fingers trembling, as he remembered his times in school.
Across the school field, kids laughed and ran, leaving him alone as always. The teacher sighed at his papers.
"Leave him be. He's an orphan."
Whispers followed like the wind. "His father ran away… trash like that."
His fingers clenched instinctively as he fought back the urge to strike. Their pitiful look felt worse than the words spoken.
For a moment, he imagined it–how easy it would be to lash out, to make them feel the same pain he did
The thought of it sickened him–lowering his hands in rejection as his nails bit into his palms.
I don't want to be like them..
So he let their voices echo in the back of his mind.
The ones who looked down on him, pretending to feel pity–they were the worst of all. "They could all go to hell."
The words he had muttered left his mouth, and guilt and jealousy knotted in his chest.
The rain began soaking the gravestones, turning the mud beneath his feet into slick clay.
Each drop ran down the names etched in stone, and the wind carried a chill that bit through his clothes.
But the thought of being in their place lingered at the back of his mind.
'As long as the winners existed, the losers would too.' He remembered the words that a man once said to him.
He looked up at the black sky, hoping for an answer, only to find nothing.
"What God?"
If one had existed, it had abandoned him, or rather, never cared about his significance.
His pale fingers ran over the eroded name on the middle of the gravestone. Stone touching cold. Then he remembered–a lullaby that played in his mind. So warm yet so distant. But it always soothed him during his darkest moments.
"Oh, mother." His voice vanished under the rain, the words leaving his mouth as if he were confessing his secrets. "Would you... hate me too for being like this?"
He almost wished the grave would answer.
"Vergil, you're enough." He knew the voice was a figment of his imagination, but he embraced it anyway. "You tried and that was more than enough."
He wished she had lived.
Wished she could be there for him.
Wished she lived for him.
Yet her name carved into the stone, was only fading as time passed.
He brushed the grave more gently than he had ever touched anything before, and with a sigh, he looked at the puddle reflecting a distorting image of his face.
A frail young boy with messy black hair stared back at him. Dark circles made him look exhausted from life.
'Huh… trash.' He muttered to himself. "Can't even deny it." His fists clenched.
The laugh broke out–resembling a strangled sound as it was only answered by the heavy downpour.
He stood up, wiping the rain from his eyes before hearing something.
Splash.
For a moment, he thought he had heard something. 'Was the rain playing tricks on him?' The cemetery was empty. 'Maybe I'm too tired.' Vergil sighed.
The footsteps drew closer. One step then silence.
Each move making a small splash, soft yet deliberate. He made no attempt to turn his head, thinking it was just another mourner.
Yet the footsteps stopped.
The cemetery held its breath. They leaves rustling without the presence of wind.
Leaving only a cold shiver to creep up his spine.
"Am I hallucinating?" He whispered, as a breath huffed against his ear.
A gloved hand covered his mouth. "Mm–! Mmmph!"
His body began to thrash instinctively.
His lungs screamed for air, as a needle stabbed into his neck, sending a cool sensation into his blood.
"Who–are." Before Vergil finished speaking, his eyes returned–back to darkness.
---
Eventually, his consciousness returned, eyes fluttering open.
He tried moving but his limbs were strapped. He lay flat on something. Cold.
Above him, a blinding light hummed at his face, forcing him to squint his eyes, yet he could see shapes moving around. Blurred, white and also masked.
'Doctors?' he thought to himself. No, something was wrong.
The metal clinked on steel trays, and the smell of alcohol was strong enough to make his noise exhale.
The figures observing him.
"Boss, he's awake." The voice said, bored.
He turned his head slowly, his muscles failing him at the simple act.
"Wait, please," Vergil begged. "I've not done anything."
A masked surgeon spoke this time, flipping through a clipboard. "Compatible," the man said. "Everything can be used."
"The kid's healthier than he looks," one of the goons commented.
'Compatible?'
The word "compatible" hollowed his chest.
Two assistants nearby chuckled from the side, their masked faces unreadable.
"The father's debts have passed to the son." He talked as if he were explaining an expensive dinner bill.
Vergil's eyes widened. "Why… tell me why, you bastard father," he screamed inside. His father had left him to fend for himself, after his mother died during labour.
The one calling himself boss leaned in, blocking the light whilst grinning. "At least one of you is useful."
Vergil tried to scream, but for what reason? And then the sound came out of his mouth.
A warped laugh that sounded like a screech came from his throat. Even Vergil didnt know if he had gone crazy or was just laughing at his own hopelessness.
The surgeons hesitated, giving uneasy glances. "Is he broken or mentally insane?" one muttered.
"Doesn't matter," another spoke, as the fluids gleamed under the light.
The boss flicked his fingers. "Keep the boy awake, think of it as a premium package. If you have someone to blame, he can curse his runaway father."
As the needle bit into his neck, the liquid entered his body, numbing him.
The scalpel touched his skin–cold at first, then it burned.
Something screamed as it cut deeper. He couldn't do anything–he couldn't even let out a single noise.
He had always imagined dying in a quiet place, at peace. But this was worse. 'A death lower than a dog. I can't accept it.' Yet one thought took over all others. 'Stop... please.' Vergil didn't want this. To die in such agony.
Something tore out of his throat and he didn't know if it was prayer or noise.
As the warmth spread beneath him, pooling and sticking to his back like goo.
Badump. Badump.
And there it was, his own heart, each beat slower than the last, in the surgeon's hands as his vision faded away.
Yet despite all he had suffered, each beat that his heart took called for him. He tried to move his fingers to take back what was his, fighting the darkness that clawed at him.
'No... no... no. This can't be real.' For once, yet what came to him was the question he asked in the rain.
For once, he wanted to be more than average.