Chapter-1

 Happy Birthday Deadman

My head was spinning. I hadn't eaten anything decent in three days, and apparently, human beings had decided that throwing perfectly edible food into dumpsters was completely normal. I mean, seriously. Was it really that difficult to throw away something that still looked edible? I had spent the last twenty minutes checking one garbage bin after another, and every single one had managed to disappoint me. Wrappers. Plastic bottles. Rotten vegetables. Empty coffee cups. A shoe. Who throws away one shoe? And not a single decent piece of food. I sighed and rubbed my stomach. "I swear, if I ever meet the person who decided garbage cans shouldn't have edible food in them, I'm going to shoot the writers of this world first." I paused. "Actually, forget that. I'm probably going to die before I meet them anyway." I kept walking toward the park, dragging my feet along the pavement. My clothes were filthy, torn in several places, and smelled like something that had lost a fight with a sewer. My hair had almost completely disappeared years ago, leaving only a few stubborn strands clinging desperately to my scalp. I had broken teeth, an old fracture that had never healed properly in my left hand, and enough scars on my face to make mirrors feel like personal attacks. People noticed me whenever I walked past. They would stare for half a second, wrinkle their noses, then look away as quickly as possible. I couldn't blame them. If I saw myself walking toward me at night, I'd probably cross the street too. Still, hunger had a way of making embarrassment irrelevant. I reached the park and continued my little treasure hunt, checking each dumpster one after another. Most of them contained nothing worth touching. Then, finally, I found something. I stopped. I stared. Buried beneath a few paper cups was a half-eaten sandwich. I slowly reached inside and pulled it out like I had discovered a priceless artifact. It wasn't fresh. It wasn't even particularly clean. One corner had been bitten off, and the bread was slightly crushed. But there was still enough left to eat. My eyes widened. "Oh, you're beautiful." I held it up toward the sky. "Thank you, God. I don't know what I did to deserve this, but I accept." I walked over to a nearby bench and sat down. A little boy had been sitting there with his mother, but the moment he saw me approaching, he jumped off the bench and ran away. I watched him go, then looked down at myself. "Yeah. Fair enough." I took a bite of the sandwich. It tasted like regret, mayonnaise, and several questionable life choices. I chewed slowly. Honestly, it was delicious. Maybe hunger really was the world's best seasoning. I leaned back against the bench and stared at the sky. It was a surprisingly beautiful afternoon. The sun wasn't too bright, the wind was cool, and for a few minutes, I almost forgot how miserable my life had become. Then I remembered what day it was. "Forty-five," I muttered. "Happy birthday to me." I looked at the half-eaten sandwich in my hand. "And look at that. I even got a present." I laughed quietly. It wasn't the first time I'd thought about how strange my life had been. In movies, when someone's parents died, the kid usually grew up and became something impressive. A hero. A genius. A successful businessman. Sometimes they became ridiculously handsome and ended up dating three beautiful women at the same time for reasons nobody could explain. Real life apparently didn't work like that. My parents had died thirty years ago. Well, technically, they weren't even my biological parents. I had been adopted when I was young. My father turned out to be an alcoholic. One night, during one of his drunken rages, he killed my mother. A few years later, crushed beneath debt and whatever remained of his own miserable life, he killed himself. I survived both of them. Somehow. I spent years carrying the kind of trauma people in movies usually overcome in a two-hour runtime. I never did. I became afraid of people. Then I became afraid of getting close to people. Eventually, I became comfortable being alone. By the time I was seventeen, I had already learned that nobody was coming to save me. The orphanage didn't keep me either. They had their reasons. I had mine. Eventually, I just disappeared into the cracks of society. Thirty years passed. Thirty years of surviving without really living. And somehow, I was still here. Though "here" was being generous. I had a tumor in my brain. One arm barely worked properly. Most of my hair was gone. Several of my teeth were broken or missing. My body looked like it had been assembled from spare parts after a particularly violent accident. I reached into my pocket and pulled out an old photograph. The edges were bent and covered in dirt. The picture showed a younger version of me. I stared at him for a while. He looked healthy. He had hair. He had all his teeth. He looked like someone who still believed the future might contain something good. "Damn," I whispered. "I actually looked decent." I smiled bitterly. "I wish I still looked like that." I folded the photograph carefully and put it back into my pocket. Then I looked around the park. "You know what, God? I've had enough." I wasn't angry when I said it. Mostly, I sounded tired. "If you're listening, I've got one last request." I looked toward the distant mountains barely visible beyond the city skyline. "Send me somewhere far away. Really far away. Somewhere with no people, no giant buildings, no traffic, no neighbors who complain about everything. Just a little house somewhere near the mountains." I started imagining it. "A small pond in front of the house. A few fish. Some vegetables growing nearby. Tomatoes, maybe. Potatoes. Something organic. And flowers. Lots of flowers." I smiled. "I'll wake up every morning, work in the garden, feed the fish, sit outside, and do absolutely nothing important." I paused. "And after maybe two days of this peaceful life, I'll die quietly outside my little house. Nobody will have to come looking for me. Nobody will have to cry. I'll just... leave." I looked toward the sky again. "That's all I want." I hesitated. "Sorry. Maybe that's asking for too much." I gave a small laugh. "But if you can manage it, I'd appreciate it." "Hey, you idiot!" A child's voice suddenly cut through my thoughts. I turned my head. It was the same boy who had run away from me earlier. He had returned, but this time he wasn't alone. A large man stood beside him. The man looked at me with open disgust. I smiled politely. "Oh. You came back." The man walked toward me. I barely had time to wonder what he wanted before his fist slammed into my face. My head snapped sideways, and I fell off the bench. I landed hard against the pavement. "Ow." I blinked at the sky. The man shouted something at me. Probably an insult. Maybe a threat. Honestly, I couldn't tell. My ears were ringing. The little boy laughed and stuck his tongue out at me before the two of them walked away. I remained on the ground. "What was that for?" I muttered. Then I looked at my reflection in a puddle. "Oh." I understood. "Right." My appearance probably didn't help. I sat up slowly and dusted myself off. "Still, a warning would've been nice." I pulled the photograph from my pocket again and stared at it. "See? This guy would've gotten sympathy." I pointed at the photograph. "You? Absolutely. Me? Apparently I look like I eat children." I sighed and stood. Maybe I should leave the park. I started walking down the road, hoping to find somewhere quiet enough to sleep. The road was surprisingly clean and peaceful compared to the park. I looked at the pavement. "Honestly, this isn't bad." I rubbed my aching back. "If I have to sleep somewhere, this road looks comfortable enough." I took another step. A dog suddenly appeared from behind a fence and started barking at me. I stopped. The dog barked louder. I raised one hand. "Yes, yes. Very impressive." The dog growled. I smiled. "Thank you. Happy birthday to me." I waited. "No present?" The dog tilted its head. "Come on. You're a dog. What does that have to do with anything? People don't just wish someone happy birthday without giving them a present." The dog barked again. "Exactly. That's what I'm talking about." A woman walking nearby suddenly screamed when she saw me talking to the dog. Several people in the park turned around. Their expressions changed almost immediately. I looked at them. They looked at me. I looked at the dog. The dog looked at me. "Oh, come on." Someone shouted something. Another person started walking toward me. I immediately turned around and ran. "WAIT! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!" My lungs burned almost instantly. "I'M ALREADY BROKEN! IF YOU BEAT ME, I'M NOT EVEN GOING TO BE ABLE TO PAY FOR THE REPAIRS!" Two or three people actually chased me. I had no idea why. Maybe I looked suspicious. Maybe talking to a dog had been the final straw. Whatever the reason, I ran as fast as my miserable body allowed. I stumbled around a corner and nearly fell. My lungs were screaming. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. "This is ridiculous," I gasped. "Forty-five years old and I'm being chased by strangers because I said hello to a dog." I kept running until I reached a larger road. That's when I saw her. An old woman was standing near the edge of the street, trying to cross. Traffic was moving quickly. I noticed the truck first. It was coming from her left side, moving far too fast. My first thought was simple. Keep walking. Not my problem. I had spent my entire life learning how to stay out of other people's problems. I was tired. I was sick. I was hungry. I had been punched in the face on my birthday. I had been chased by strangers. I had enough reasons to mind my own business. Then I looked at the old woman again. She took one step forward. The truck was getting closer. "Damn it." I stopped. "Of course." I looked up at the sky. "You couldn't give me one peaceful day, could you?" I started running toward her. "HEY!" The old woman turned. I reached the road. My body screamed at me to stop, but I kept moving. I didn't even know what I was planning to do. Push her out of the way? Grab her? Scream? Something. Anything. For once, maybe I could die doing something heroic. "At least," I thought, "I can finally have a decent death story." Then something slammed into my right side. A bicycle. A man on it had somehow managed to hit me at full speed. My feet left the ground. I spun through the air and crashed onto the road. "What the—" I didn't even finish the sentence. A car came straight toward me. There was a violent impact. Everything went white. Then everything went quiet. I lay on the pavement, staring at nothing. My body didn't seem to belong to me anymore. I couldn't feel my arms. I couldn't feel my legs. Somewhere in the distance, people were shouting. Sirens began to rise. I tried to breathe. "Well..." I thought. "A bicycle and a car." I almost laughed. "Two hits." I stared at the sky. "Not bad." My vision blurred. "But I didn't even save the old lady." A strange sadness settled over me. "If I really get another life someday..." I swallowed, though I wasn't sure I could. "This is going to hurt my pride." I felt my eyes closing. "What a stupid way to die." Someone was screaming for an ambulance. Footsteps surrounded me. An old woman came rushing toward my body. I recognized her immediately. She was alive. Completely fine. I stared at her in disbelief. "Wait..." I tried to move my mouth. Nothing happened. "You're alive?" I wanted to laugh. I wanted to complain. I wanted to tell her that I had just gotten hit by a bicycle because of her. Instead, I could barely breathe. The old woman shouted, "Call an ambulance!" I wanted to scream back. Why? Can't you see I'm dying? I already accepted it! Then I realized something horrifying. I couldn't feel my jaw. "Oh." My thoughts slowed. "That's probably broken." Someone touched my shoulder. Someone else shouted for space. The world became blurry. I could no longer tell where the sky ended and the faces began. My heartbeat slowed. I felt strangely peaceful. "Maybe this is it." I smiled—or at least tried to. "Finally." The sound around me faded. My thoughts became distant. The last thing I remembered was the half-eaten sandwich. The last thing I thought was that I still hadn't gotten my little house. Then everything disappeared. Evan Joseph died on an ordinary road on his forty-fifth birthday. No heroic sacrifice. No final speech. No miracle. Just a broken body lying in the middle of the street while strangers gathered around him. A homeless, sick, beaten-down man with an old photograph in his pocket and a life nobody would remember. And yet, for the first time in forty-five years, Evan was about to wake up somewhere completely different.