I hate life.
I loathe it with a passion. Arbitrarily, some people are given everything in life: family, happiness, wealth, power, and love. Those who are given everything are envied. On the other hand, there are those who have nothing. Those who are born into the dirt, and have to struggle and claw their way up to the top, only to be pushed back down by the first group of people. Everybody wishes that they were part of the first group, because life can be no less than good for them.
What did I do to deserve being part of the second group?
It is Life Day, the galactic holiday for joyful and festive celebration of life and happiness. Inside a warm, cozy house, a little boy sits at the dinner table eagerly as his mother pours drinks and his father cuts the delicious-looking, roasted bird-type mammal that had been bought and cooked earlier in the day. Overall, an aura of love, family, and happiness permeates the air.
I am not the little boy inside the warm, cozy house surrounded by his parents. I am the little boy shivering outside in the cold, winter snow, discreetly looking through the window to the more fortunate boy. Perhaps it is here that my later narcissism and cynicism is born. On some deep, fundamental level, I understood, as a young child, that there was something wrong with this universe. That such unfairness should not exist at all.
Scooching away, I return to the alleyway between Jenkin's Market, a disreputable shop that sold black market goods, and Grandma Flora's Tea Store, a cover store for a system-wide crime syndicate that sold drugs. Of course, as a young, naïve child, I knew nothing of such evil. It was only years later, returning to this hellhole, that I found out about the true nature of these stores. For now, they simply formed the alleyway I called home.
Anyway, after going through a much simpler version of the unfairness of life, I laid down in the cardboard box that served as a protection against the elements. I noted with some pride that my cardboard box was well kept and sturdy; there were as of yet no holes or damage on my box. As I lay there, however, the futility of life set in, and I realized once again that it was absolutely pathetic to be proud of a cardboard box's condition.
"Life kriffing sucks," I thought, as I miserably tried to cover myself with what little rags I had as a strong gust of wind blew past.
For a street rat, one quickly figures out that food is a rather large issue. I reckon that I was probably about seven or eight when this specific incident happened.
"Curse you, you thief!" yelled a rather portly street vendor, as I ran off with a loaf of bread. Barely sparing a glance backwards, I quickly evaded the crowds and sharply turned into an alley (not my home alleyway, mind you) – only to slam right into the bulk of a law enforcement officer.
"A thief?" he grinned, moving forward. I promptly scooted backwards, only to back up into the bulk of another law enforcement officer.
"Perhaps we should teach thieves the punishments of their crimes," said the second officer.
Now I felt somewhat scared.
"Erm, officers? I'll give back the bread and … whatnot. Don't you guys do warnings or something?"
The punch definitely had no warning.
"Scum like you don't deserve such things."
I simply spat out some blood. They proceeded to, let's say, rough me up, before taking my hard earned bread.
"This bread tastes like bantha fodder," said one, spitting out a piece of soggy bread after chewing on it.
They left me on the ground, where I lay for some time, before picking myself up. Limping, I made my way back to the home alleyway, where I collapsed inside my impeccable cardboard box.
"Life will get better. How much worse could it get?"
Life could get much worse.
About a year and a half after my enlightening Life Day experience, there were rumors that an insane murderer was going around. This in of itself was not abnormally strange. Murderers, thieves, and criminals in general were all commonplace on this planet, with law enforcement and whatnot as corrupt as they are. What was really strange was this particular criminal's penchant for… blood. The victim was usually found in pieces before the authorities arrived.
However, as a young child, I paid little attention to these trivialities, as they could never affect me. Such naivety lasted only until I was proven wrong.
This night was not unlike any other. I was huddled in my box, struggling between remaining warm and keeping my hungry stomach empty. Suddenly, a sound was made at the front of the dark alleyway. Looking up, I saw a drunken man wander down the alleyway. His gait shifted him from right to left, until he was nearly upon me. That was when he saw me.
"Why hello," he slurred, while grinning maniacally. "What have we here?"
Perhaps a little late, my danger senses kicked in, and I attempted to run away. Unfortunately, my childish reflexes were no match for that of an adult's, even an inebriated one. His leg carelessly swept both of mine, sending me tumbling down into the cold, hard ground. As I grunted and struggled to get up, he put his knee on my chest, pushing all of the air out of my lungs, before proceeding to pull out a large knife.
My eyes widened at his knife. It was a physical knife with an actual metal blade. Nowadays, such things had been largely replaced by vibroblades and the like, plasma beams being far more efficient than the sharpest blade of metal. The man caught my glance at his knife.
"Like it?" he spat. "Folks will say that it's worse than a vibroblade, but, to be honest, a nice blade gives a far more satisfying feeling than any vibroblade."
And then he cut.
Pain. White. Pain. Red. Pain.
That was all I felt. I have no idea how long it was, but sometime into it, I started screaming. He enjoyed my screaming, saying it only added to the "fun". He said that up until law enforcement arrived, and shot him. I, on the other hand, was taken to a hospital. It was when I was lying on the filthy hospital bed that my life would be forever changed.
My return to consciousness was somewhat unpleasant. Various parts of my body ached, including a leg and my head. The most notable sensation was a… numbness that came over my right arm. I looked at it, only to see the dirty hospital sheets instead. Looking at my shoulder, I saw the stump of an arm that was cauterized. I had no right arm. I had lost it to the insane, sadistic murderer. Falling back into the bed, I looked around the room in a daze. It was a simple hospital room with a creaking dirty bed, and a dead flower in a pot on a side table. No windows lit the room with sunlight.
The rest of my hospital experience passed in a daze. A lazy looking nurse entered, saw that I was awake, and hospital guards proceeded to kick me to the curb when it was found that I couldn't pay for my "treatment". They didn't bother with the fact that I was a minor and had no legal representative. They didn't care. Numbly walking, I shifted towards my alley until I collapsed inside my box. My cozy, little secure box. My life had taken a 180 degree turn in the span of one night. Even my life, full of rags and filth, had seemed relatively secure. Not anymore. I glanced once more at my stump of an arm before falling back and looking at the night sky. At least the stars were still there.
A certain lazy nurse took the vial of blood, made sure that it was secure, and set it into a container. The container was then loaded onto a waiting transport to be taken to kriff-knows-where. It wasn't really any of her business, and frankly, she couldn't care enough anyways. She was being paid good money to siphon off the blood of patients, so she was content to carry out her job.
A nondescript grey protocol droid handed her a credit stick before boarding the transport, which promptly took off. The nurse glanced at the credit stick for a moment before stuffing it into her pocket. None of her morals were harmed during the transaction.