Chapter - 1
Life tends to give you one of two things when you come into this world: lemonade or lemons. Some are handed the sweet rewards of luck, support, and ease. Others are given nothing but the lemons, the ones you struggle to squeeze into something drinkable. When life hands you lemons, you have to accept that you're in for a lifelong struggle, a fight to turn that bitterness into something you can live with.
I was born into the lemon group—the unlucky side of things. An orphan from the start, I spent my earliest years grappling with who I was, shuffled from one foster home to another, each one colder and less familiar than the last. The foster system took me in, but it didn't care for me; it was a system that seemed designed to suck the life out of kids like me, leaving us broken or hardened—or both.
Each time I got settled, I was uprooted again, passed from one family to the next like an unwanted parcel, never quite fitting, never belonging. By the time I was in my teens, I'd been through more foster homes than I cared to count. They called it a safety net, but it felt more like a trap. The worst of them wasn't just indifferent. I remember the cold sting of a leather belt on my back, punishment for the smallest mistakes. In that particular household, being five minutes late giving a beer to your foster parents, meant a welt on your skin and the quiet, choking pain of humiliation. It's strange the things you carry with you, but that memory clings like a scar.
But, I made it out—barely. At eighteen, I was released from the system and tossed into the world, carrying everything I owned in a single duffel bag. No money, no family, no high school diploma. All I had was the determination not to go back to that kind of life.
That's how I ended up as a construction laborer, one of the few jobs that would take a guy like me. It wasn't glamorous, but it was honest work. Every morning, I dragged myself out of bed in my one-bedroom, barely-standing apartment and stared at the mirror. I didn't know the thirty-year old guy staring back. A stranger with shaggy brown hair, eyes that were an eerie shade of light blue, and a hard jawline set by years of gritting my teeth against the world. My skin had taken on a rugged tan from hours under the sun, and the physical labor had kept me lean, fit, almost strong-looking in a way. But inside, I knew I was still that kid in the foster home, trying to make it out with his pride intact.
--
On a typical morning, I downed a cup of yesterday's coffee, cold and bitter, then laced up my work boots and headed out. The construction site wasn't far from my place. As I walked, I felt the familiar pulse of the city around me, with its morning commuters, honking cars, and the rhythm of countless lives, each carrying their own stories of struggle and survival.
The site was already bustling when I arrived. I could hear the sharp clang of metal, the hum of machinery, and the barked orders of foremen trying to keep everything on schedule. The framework of the building rose into the sky, unfinished and skeletal, like a beast we were slowly coaxing to life. I climbed up to the upper floors, where I spent most of my shifts, hammering, carrying, nailing, and piecing together something far grander than myself.
Around midday, as I was balancing on a narrow beam, I noticed one of the newer guys—a kid, barely twenty and green as they come. He was struggling to secure a load, his hands fumbling as he tried to maneuver the materials without losing his footing. One wrong step, one slip, and he'd be gone.
"Hold on!" I called out, trying to reach him. "Don't move, I got you!"
But the beam was narrow, and in those few seconds, everything happened too fast. The kid shifted, his foot slipping on a stray nail. Instinct took over—I lunged forward, grabbing his arm, my grip tight as steel. For a moment, I thought I had him, that we'd both make it out okay. But the weight of his body pulled against mine, and the beam beneath us creaked ominously. I felt myself losing balance, gravity claiming me as I lost my grip on the metal frame.
I don't remember hitting the ground. The last thing I remember is the look on that kid's face—wide-eyed, a mix of fear and relief as I shoved him back onto the platform with the last of my strength. Then there was nothing but air around me, and the world spinning as I fell.
And that's how the life of the unremarkable Damon Hale came to an end.