When he was a boy, he used to think that no one deserved to die. That no matter what that person did human life was more important. That life was too precious. What a stupid kid. He learned—because life was a cruel joke making him part of the punchline—that human life meant absolutely nothing.
In a small cramped cell, with the only light coming from a crack in the wall, the man looked at the ceiling. He didn't say anything. But the man looked intently a figure from his past, deeply rooted in his memories, and pondered.
Alone with his thoughts, the man thought of his childhood, and slowly, stretched his hand and imagined digging his nails into his palm, just as he had done on more than one occasion. Outside his thoughts, fear and despair—the silent cries of men waiting to die—added to the already appalling reality. That's why the only thing left for him were memories of a forgotten past.
Once most people enter adulthood, they focus on fulfilling their selfish desires, ignoring everything and everyone unrelated to them. Why? Because no one person can be blamed for the suffering of a child they didn't know existed? Was it because people are ignorant? Selfish? Whatever the reason, people only live for themselves. And the man always remembered this.
A man who went on stealing and killing alone. He'd started off alone and continued as people began taking notice, yet they didn't matter. He believed that power was what granted someone the right to live, and without it… they didn't deserve to be alive. So, he pushed himself harder, past his limits—to prove that truth.
Yes, that's why power was everything. But then the world saw fit to shatter him.
—it was beyond his expectations. He watched as his arm was laid flat, no longer able to muster any strength. The sky was dark, with the moon shining down it's green light—etching itself into his mind. The men burst into laughter, snorting and chuckling to themselves, the man unable to do anything watched. As they held him, he shrieked, his face pale, the blade slowly digging into his skin, past the bone, and finally cutting both his hand and his soul.
—Is this what his existence amounted to?
—Was it wrong for him to exist?
—What right did they have to deny his existence?