Lightning flashed across the cloudy sky as rain hammered down on the cemetery. In that brief moment, he felt that nothing would ever be fair.
"Is it so wrong to be average?" he muttered, rain dripping down his body as the cold pierced his skin.
He muttered the question aloud, and the wind carried it away. Unanswered, mocking him.
"No... I'm worse than that."
He swallowed, admitting what he truly was.
His voice cracked on the last words; he didn't want to admit it. "They say we're born equal."
"Yeah. Must be nice," Vergil muttered, jaw tightening.
He never cared about money, 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: "Father ran away… trash like that."
He clenched his fists, biting back the urge to strike. Their pity felt worse than their words
For a moment, he imagined it–how easy it would be to lash out, to make them hurt the way he did.
The thought sickened him. He lowered his hands, nails biting into his palms instead.
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.
Rain hammered the cemetery, soaking the gravestones and 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.
He ran his fingers over the eroded name on the gravestone. Cold penetrated his skin. A lullaby played in his mind–warm and distant, but it 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 wasn't real, but he let himself believe it anyway. "You tried and that was more than enough."
He wished she had lived. Wished she could be there for him, yet her name was only fading.
He brushed the grave more gently than he had ever touched anything before, sighing as he looked at a puddle reflecting his distorted 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.
Footsteps echoed behind him, soft but deliberate. He didn't dare turn his head. Something waited there, just out of sight, its presence heavy in the damp air.
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Leaves trembled without wind, and the shadows twisted unnaturally along the gravestones.
A shiver crawled down his spine.
"Am I hallucinating?" He whispered, as a breath brushed against his ear.
A gloved hand covered his mouth. "Mm–! Mmmph!"
He began to thrash, muscles screaming as he gasped for air. A needle stabbed his neck. A burning sensation entered his body.
"Who–are." Before he could finish, his eyes returned to darkness.
---
Eventually, his consciousness came back to him.
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 sting his eyes.
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 chuckled from the shadows, 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 came out of his throat; even Vergil didn't know if he had gone crazy or was laughing at how hopeless his situation was. "I'll remember."
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.