Weak Class of Anti-Hero

I don’t know how long I was in there, in the dark and the stench. Hours, maybe. The pain was a constant companion, a background noise in my mind.

Finally, I managed to gather enough strength to push the dumpster lid open. The gray light of dawn blinded me.

I climbed out of the dumpster, landing heavily on the alley floor. I was naked, except for my dirty underwear. They had taken everything. My clothes, my terminal, my dignity.

The morning cold made me shiver. I was alone, hurt, in the middle of nowhere.

Despair threatened to swallow me. But a single thought kept me afloat. My mother.

Was she okay? Had Yoo-Na lied? Or had she kept her word?

I had to know. I had to get to the hospital.

I looked around, searching for anything to cover myself. There was a large, flattened cardboard box against a wall. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

I picked it up and wrapped it around my waist, like some kind of ridiculous loincloth.

I walked out of the alley. The sun was just beginning to rise, but there were already a few people on the streets. Workers starting their day.

They saw me. A half-naked young man, covered in bruises and dirt, with a cardboard box for clothing. They looked at me with a mix of fear and pity. They crossed the street, thinking I was a madman, a junkie.

I ignored them. Every look, every whisper, was fuel.