Protagonist’s POV:

  I died. If you were to ask how, I'd label it a heroic death, but that would be far from the truth.

  Before my untimely end, my name was #####. I lived in a small city called XXXXXX. As a high school student, I faced the harshest reality: relentless bullying. “Why not stand up for yourself?” you might ask. But how do you fight back when the ones attacking you are twice your size and driven by cruelty?

  It might sound cliché, but my life was anything but extraordinary. The only reprieve I had was the rare days when my tormentors were in a better mood, sparing my face the worst of the beatings. I reached out to teachers for help, but their intervention only deepened the bullies’ resolve. The days that followed were some of the darkest.

  Learning martial arts? I tried. Free trials, “money-back guarantees”—I attempted them all. But practice is different from execution, and without experience, fighting back was just a fantasy.

  Poverty was an unrelenting shadow in our household. My part-time job covered basic needs and schooling. My father, a hopeless drunk, drained what little money we had left, while my mother worked four jobs, struggling to keep our fragile lives from shattering. Arguments filled the nights, their echoes laced with the sharp crack of violence. I hated it. I hated him.

  You get the picture of my life—or what it was. Now, let me tell you how everything spiraled beyond control.

  The Breaking Point

  One evening, the shouting began again. I was helping my mother with dinner, a kitchen knife within arm's reach. When my father struck her, something snapped inside me. I grabbed the knife and lunged.

  The moments that followed are a blur. When my mind returned, my father sat on the floor, blood-soaked, shaking, and sobbing over a body. My mother's body. The knife—my knife—protruded from her abdomen.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I ran. No destination, just away. Away from the horror, the guilt, the sight of my father's tear-streaked face. Rain poured relentlessly as I stumbled through empty streets, soaked and shivering, until I collapsed against a cold wall and wept until the storm passed.

  When I stood again, numb and exhausted, I wandered aimlessly until I heard familiar voices. A group of my classmates—the bullies—had cornered another victim in a nearby alley. The boy's eyes met mine, pleading silently.

  “Help me!” he gasped.

  The bullies turned. One sneered, “Well, well, if it isn’t #####. Boys!”

  I tried to flee, but they caught me, dragging me into the alley. They released the other boy, their interest shifting to me. He scurried away, leaving me to face them alone. My anger surged—at him, at them, at everything.

  “Your mom didn’t teach you manners, huh?” one of them spat, his words cutting deeper than any knife.

  My dried tears returned in full force. Rage exploded. I launched myself at him, scratching, biting, hitting blindly. Stunned, they watched their quiet victim fight back with a ferocity I didn’t know I possessed. I managed to land a solid blow, my knee connecting with the leader's groin. He crumpled, tears springing to his eyes.

  But I wasn’t finished. Fueled by pain and fury, I attacked anyone nearby, targeting their most vulnerable spots. For those moments, I was unstoppable.

  “They deserve this,” I thought. “It’s people like them who make the world unbearable. It’s their fault my mother is gone. Their fault I suffered.”

  Thoughts darkened, spiraling: Kill them all. Kill my father. Kill everyone who watched me suffer and did nothing. The fury drowned everything out until a sharp pain cut through my haze. I collapsed, my head pounding, wetness trickling down my scalp and pooling beneath me.

  At first, I thought it was rain. But the spreading red told me otherwise. My vision blurred, voices faded, and footsteps pounded away. Then silence. Cold, empty silence.

  I died—not in heroism, but in violence and despair.

  Bonus POV:

  Or did I? It’s hard to tell when your mind works but your body doesn’t. I could see—if seeing counts as floating in endless darkness. No sound, no sensation. Just a void.

  How long had I been here? Hours, days, or years? Was this the afterlife? Hell?

  With nothing to do but think, my mind replayed the past: the bullying, my mother’s death, the pain and helplessness. Anger swelled with every memory until it consumed me. Thoughts fragmented, voices argued inside me. Were they all me? Or was I now talking to you? Are you another version of myself?

  Time stripped away my memories, one by one, until only a wasteland remained. Only one memory clung desperately to my mind: hate. Dark and poisonous, it bloomed as the last vestige of who I was.

  “Why am I so angry?” I wondered. “Because they hurt me. They all did. And they should all pay!”