The fluorescent lights of the classroom buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the rows of desks. Mike, however, saw none of it. His gaze was fixed on the worn-out textbook in front of him, the words blurring into an unintelligible mess.
"War is a necessary evil," the teacher droned on, his voice a monotonous hum in the background. "A tool for maintaining order, for protecting our way of life."
Mike scoffed inwardly. Order? What order? The world outside his window was a chaotic symphony of sirens, distant explosions, and the mournful cries of the bereaved. His own life, once filled with the carefree ramblings of childhood, had been shattered, the pieces scattered by an unseen, malevolent force.
He remembered the day vividly. It had been a sunny afternoon, the air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass. He had been walking hand-in-hand with his father, a broad smile plastered on his face. They had passed a toy store window, a vibrant display of colorful toys catching his eye.
"Daddy, look!" he had exclaimed, pointing at a gleaming red robot. "Can we get it?"
His father, ever patient, had ruffled his hair. "Maybe someday, son," he had replied, his voice warm and reassuring. But Mike, impatient and spoiled, had persisted. "I want it! I want it!"
His father, weary from a long day at work, had sighed. "Alright, alright," he had conceded, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "But just this once."
They had entered the store, the cheerful jingles of a children's song filling the air. Mike, his eyes wide with excitement, had reached for the robot, his fingers brushing against the smooth, plastic surface.
Then, the world exploded.
The deafening roar of the blast sent him tumbling to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, his ears ringing, his vision blurred. He saw his father lying on the ground, his body contorted at an unnatural angle, blood seeping into the concrete.
"Daddy!" he cried, rushing to his father's side. "Daddy, wake up!"
His father's eyes, glazed and vacant, stared up at the cracked ceiling. Mike, panic rising in his throat, tried to shake him awake, his small hands frantically searching for a pulse. But there was nothing.
And then, the voice. A cold, detached voice that seemed to echo in his mind.
"Your father is dead, he can't wake up anymore."
No. No. No. The words echoed in his head, a mantra of denial. He refused to believe it. He clung to his father, sobbing uncontrollably, begging him to open his eyes, to speak to him. But it was no use.
His father's lips moved, forming a silent, wordless plea.
"My son… Your mother and sister are entrusted to you."
And then, silence. A suffocating, deafening silence. Mike, cradling his father's lifeless body, felt the world shatter around him.
The days that followed were a blur of grief and despair. The world had lost its color, replaced by a monotonous gray. He blamed himself, convinced that his whining, his insistence on the toy, had somehow angered the gods and brought this tragedy upon them.
Six months had passed since that fateful day, and the grief had not subsided. It lingered, a constant ache in his chest, a shadow that clung to him wherever he went. He worked tirelessly, taking on odd jobs, delivering newspapers, anything to support his mother and his younger sister, Emily. But the weight of responsibility, the guilt that gnawed at him, was heavy.
He had grown cynical, disillusioned with the world. War, once a distant rumble on the news, had become a terrifying reality, a constant threat looming over their fragile existence. He saw the suffering it caused, the families torn apart, the lives shattered. And he hated it.
He hated the politicians who preached about honor and glory while sending young men to their deaths. He hated the system that allowed such senseless violence to thrive. He hated himself for his own childish naivety, for his part in this tragic turn of events.
The teacher's voice cut through his reverie. "Any questions, Mike?"
Mike shook his head, his gaze fixed on the floor. He had no questions. He only had doubts. Doubts about the world, about himself, and about the meaning of it all.
The world, he thought bitterly, was a broken machine, and he was just a small, insignificant cog, destined to grind away until he too was consumed by the darkness.