"I shall not die a pauper once more."

A dark night.

The lack of lighting casts darkness, leaving shadows to cover the unnamed city. Clouds blocked the stars and the moon, not leaving even a sparkle or glimmer in its form.An unforeseen breeze washes now and then, giving those that it meets a cool yet numbing sensation.

Long and loud chirps of owls, crickets and occasional howls of a canine sounds throughout the broken manor far away from the town.

There a man laid inside, weakened and malnourished, seemingly as if he was deprived of life since long ago. Sweat beads form over his body, it fighting against something — an enemy it has been fighting for a long, long time.

The nightbreeze comforts the man, yet the man feels nothing. He feels hot, and the cold winds do not counteract and balance the disruption of his nature. Homeostasis. The body was trying its hardest to fight back; it was solving fast yet sand was slowly falling down into an empty void.

Countless bloodstains, new and old, over the cracked floorboards of his home and the long, pale clothes he wore. He kept coughing and coughing loudly enough that it echoed out of the house, yet no one hears his suffering.

Breathing in and out, the man laid in his bed, nearing his demise. Many years ago, he was a hero defeating enemies that threatened his homeland.

From a poor family, he felt this pain once more, yet not as painful as it is now.

He grew up to protect the nation afterwards, one goal in mind: to fight back.

War broke out and he killed, others did as well, but he survived.

A veteran he truly is.

Perhaps now was the judgement given to him by those whom he took the liberty of life.

They were merely following orders, maybe some had a caring family they left behind, never to be seen again.

Their bodies laid in the battleground, possibly unnamed; never to be returned to their loved ones in their country.

He was praised, awarded by his superiors. Garnered with ornaments shining by the light it reflected from the sun.

It was the opposite of what he was feeling now.

Surrounded by pitch-black darkness, he was truly alone. Even after his achievements, here, nobody cared for him.

Was killing soldiers truly an act deserving of a medal? They were people too as well.

Maybe that's why.

He rethinks the past in his final moments, even when he threw up dark blood from his mouth, if he really deserves this ending.

An ending unfit for a survivor. He survived long only to die from a preventable disease, cared for by nobody, remembered by none.

He remembers his childhood, the exact moment when he was feeling this same scenario occuring in that cold, gloomy night.

They were poor, unable to do nothing. He was rich before, but everything came falling downwards due to his inactions to move forward.

The bright manor now tarnished by vines, the statues of various people broken, cracked and crumbled. They were important to his life but now it no longer resembles the figure they were designed after.

He was left with no money, taken by the greedy. Even when he became rich, he was still below the ones manipulating that society, keeping the lowly to suffer from their actions.

The war was also caused by them. Using the promise of money, servitude of protection to the country, they manipulated them into a quarrel with another. Perhaps they started it, vice versa even.

But in the end, they took everything once they found a single gap — tore through his mind already broken by war.

In the end, he thought of one thing:

"I cannot die like this." Born poor, became rich and then everything was taken away and he became poor once more.

After all the hardships, they, the people who never even suffered the war took what was deserving for him. He was meant to live a peaceful life after that, but that never happened.

He shall not die a pauper, but there is nothing he can do about his situation.

And then, in the cold, gloomy night. His consciousness drifted away, leaving the body broken, never to move again.