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I was never the hero of anyone's story.
Not the golden boy who made his family proud.
Not the genius kid who turned heads in crowded rooms.
Not even the rebel who fought back.
No.
I was the mistake.
The leftover.
The one everyone wished would just disappear quietly.
Every morning, I woke up in the cramped, foul-smelling room I called mine. The peeling walls bore stains older than I was. A single broken window let in the cold wind that bit my skin even in summer. I wrapped myself tighter in the threadbare blanket and listened.
The house spoke before my uncle did — the heavy shuffle of feet, the clink of empty bottles rolling across the floor, the slurred curses thrown at invisible ghosts.
Another morning.
Another hell.
"Oi, get your lazy ass outta bed!"
His voice was a wreckage of rage and whiskey.
I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
No protests. No excuses. It never mattered.
I learned long ago that silence was my only armor.
Dragging my weak body up, I stepped into the chaos of the living room.
Beer cans. Cigarette butts. Broken glass.
And him — slouched in a ripped armchair, yellow eyes glaring at me as if I personally ruined his life.
Maybe I did.
Maybe just by existing, I reminded him of the brother he hated — my father.
The brother who died young, leaving behind a worthless son for someone else to raise.
"Clean this sh*t up," he barked, kicking an empty bottle toward me.
I nodded.
Because that's all I ever did.
Nod. Obey. Endure.
As I picked up the trash with trembling hands, the TV flickered.
Another news broadcast.
Another tragedy.
"Strange illness spreading in the southern districts. Citizens are advised to avoid crowded areas—"
My uncle snorted and switched channels to a wrestling match.
Because who cared about some disease when you had beer and broken dreams?
I didn't think much of it either.
The world had always been sick in one way or another.
---
School wasn't any better.
If home was hell, then school was the afterlife — cold, empty, and cruel.
I wasn't bullied in the classic sense.
No punches thrown.
No lockers slammed.
I was something worse than hated.
I was ignored.
The teachers barely remembered my name.
The students walked past me like I was a ghost.
Even when I spoke, my voice came out small and shaky — easy to forget, easier to mock.
At lunch, I sat alone under the dead oak tree behind the gym.
Dry leaves crumbled under my hands as I stared at the cracked cement.
I didn't eat.
I didn't play.
I just… existed.
Sometimes, I wondered if I had already died, and no one had noticed.
---
The first real sign came on a Wednesday.
The janitor — old Mr. Harris — collapsed in the hallway during fourth period.
At first, everyone thought it was a heart attack.
But then he stood back up.
Slow. Twisting. Wrong.
His eyes were... gone.
Not blind. Not glassy.
Just gone, replaced by a horrible milky film.
He lashed out at the nearest person — a girl from the senior class.
Tore into her throat with his bare hands before anyone could scream.
The school went into lockdown.
Sirens. Screams. Blood.
I huddled in a supply closet, heart hammering against my ribs, mouth dry as sand.
I waited for someone to come.
For rescue.
For death.
Neither came.
Only silence.
Heavy, endless silence.
When I finally crept out, the halls were smeared in red.
Bodies slumped against lockers.
Phones buzzing with unanswered calls.
The world had shifted under my feet.
And somehow, I was still standing.
---
By nightfall, the city was under quarantine.
They told us it was "precautionary."
They told us everything would be fine.
Lies.
Easy, lazy lies to make the sheep feel safe.
I made my way home through streets choked with abandoned cars and the smell of rot.
When I reached the front door, I hesitated.
Inside was the only family I had left.
The man who hated me.
The man who would curse me until his last breath.
But he was all I had.
And I...
I was still too weak to let go.
I pushed the door open.
The house was dark, but I could hear him — coughing, wheezing.
I followed the sounds to the living room.
He was sprawled on the couch, clutching his chest.
Sweat poured down his face. His veins stood out like black roots under his skin.
He looked up at me, and for a second — just a second — I saw fear in his bloodshot eyes.
Real fear.
Not anger.
Not hate.
"Help... me," he gasped, reaching out with a trembling hand.
I froze.
All my life, I had begged him for kindness.
And he had given me fists and curses in return.
Now he begged me.
And I…
I didn't move.
I watched as he convulsed, as his skin turned a sickly grey, as his breathing stopped.
Silence.
Then, with a horrible crack of bone, he sat up.
Slow. Twitching.
His head tilted at an unnatural angle.
White eyes met mine.
And he lunged.
---
I didn't scream.
I didn't run.
I didn't even flinch.
I just... looked at him.
Really looked.
And something inside me — something I didn't know I had — woke up.
"Stop," I whispered.
A broken word from a broken boy.
But he stopped.
Mid-lunge. Mid-attack.
Frozen.
He fell to his knees, hands clawing at the floor.
A guttural whine escaped his lips — not rage, not hunger — but something like submission.
I stared, heart thundering.
This wasn't normal.
This wasn't human.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
I backed away slowly.
He didn't follow.
He stayed there, kneeling in the darkness, head bowed as if I was something sacred... or something feared.
Outside the window, I saw them — more of the dead.
Dragging their mangled bodies down the street.
Biting, tearing, killing.
But when they reached the house...
they stopped too.
Their heads turned toward me.
Their empty eyes locked onto mine.
And they didn't attack.
They waited.
Silent.
Obedient.
I pressed a trembling hand against the glass.
They mirrored the gesture.
For the first time in my miserable, unwanted life,
someone — something — listened.
Not because they were forced.
Not because they pitied me.
But because they had to.
I didn't understand why.
Not yet.
But deep in my bones, I knew one thing:
I was no longer weak.
I was no longer useless.
I was something else.
Something terrifying.
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