That fateful day, Kafka had disappeared off the face of the planet twice. A single unfortunate choice had changed his life.
It was 9:59 PM, on a rainy Friday Night.The rain was calming, a peaceful drizzle. In this case, it was the calm before the storm. A moment of silence before a silent hell. A boy, no older than seventeen, was on the rooftop of a building, holding a gun to his head. With the comforting rain, one couldn't tell if he was crying. However, the truth remains ever true, independent of perception. With tears streaming down his face onto the floor, Kafka regretted ever being born.
The immeasurably heavy silence had been broken by a thundering sound. A gunshot pierced the silence, and a body dropped to the floor.
The rain went on and the Sun rose the following morning. Nothing had changed, and no one had noticed. Except, Kafka's life had ended. There was no denying that. Kafka had ceased to exist.
Every person has a history. A series of past events connected to someone or something. Yet, written and protected history is always that of the winners. Kafka was a "loser". He could have ceased to exist any day in his life, and it would be all the same. Even towards the end of his short life, he had lost the battle against himself.
A "loser" through and through.
Yet for the first time in seventeen years, his loss birthed a mysterious triumph.
Kafka woke up.