"What is crooked cannot be made straight, and what is lacking cannot be counted."

  Ecclesiastes 1:15

  It was a night like any other on the streets of S?o Paulo. I walked along the shadowy avenue, lit only by streetlamps, by the headlights of cars that—despite the late hour—still flowed constantly along the roadway, and by a strangely large, full moon that seemed to watch the city with silent disdain. Its intense glow reflected on the filthy waters of the stream beside me, like a distorted mirror of the life it illuminated. The silvery texture that dyed the world around me gave the landscape a ghostly, ethereal air, as if at any moment that arrogant moon might swallow everything beneath its light. A demonstration of its cosmic and unquestionable superiority.

  Beyond the company of cars zigzagging along the avenue, I saw the figures that always appear at this hour. A beggar bent beneath his own weight. A junkie babbling to no one. A prostitute fixing her makeup under the dead light of a lamppost. Sometimes, all three things living together in the same worn-out body. All of them living their lives at the very edge of what can still be called human, and yet all of them seemed to have something I didn’t: an impulse, a direction—no matter how small or misguided—something I lacked.

  Even after a long day as a supermarket cashier, even with the accumulated exhaustion and my body begging for rest, my insomnia refused to negotiate. So I walked. The next day was my only day off of the week, but what would I do with it besides let the hours pass?

  When I reached the railing that bordered the stream, I stopped. I observed. The waters were filthy, polluted to the point that a single glance was enough to smell the sewage running through them, yet still clear enough to reflect my face. I stared at that distorted, grotesque image, and a single thought crossed my mind: it was a perfect mirror.

  The stream was me. A resource exploited, mutilated by time and indifference. Once a source of life, now reduced to carrying the waste of others, a means to an end that was never mine. Weak. Mutated. Powerless. There was no beauty, no glory—only the functionality of a constant flow. And like it, I too was a reflection of the city around me: gray, cold, disposable.

  Micah is my name. A name whose meaning I don’t remember. I don’t know why my mother chose it. Maybe it was some fragile desire to be different, a muffled scream against the mediocrity she carried—born from a wish to compensate for her ordinary life, one her old childish persona would have despised. But to me, it’s just another burden. Whenever I introduce myself, the name becomes an obstacle, something others need to hear more than once to understand, a small curiosity for them to amuse themselves at my expense. Micah. One more inconvenience among the things I never chose, but carry.

  And my life—my existence—can be summed up in a single word: weakness.

  But it isn’t weakness that haunts me. It’s worse than that. I am the one who chases it. I have always been too weak to pursue any goal—to even have one. Always too weak to try to make my fantasies real, preferring to leave them imprisoned in daydreams, living in my crude imagination every time I see a minimally attractive woman at work, or an injustice I would never have the courage to resolve—except in my troubled mind. Too weak to make any decision, letting others decide for me. And when I do decide on something, it’s always too late to even consider making it more than a dream, more than a page fragment in the immense fantasy library that is my head.

  Even my dependence is a reflection of my weakness. I depend on the pity of others, on the silent tolerance of those around me. And in return, I give my mediocrity.

  I stared at the reflection in the stream, trying to find something—anything—that said I was wrong. That maybe there was something in me beyond this. That the full moon reigning in the sky wasn’t acting as a spotlight for the pathetic spectacle before it. But the mirror didn’t lie. The stream only reflected what was already there: the truth, carved by countless proofs my life had handed me on a silver platter, like a waiter serving his own head.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  And maybe that was the truth that bothered me most. Because deep down, I knew it wasn’t others who oppressed me. It wasn’t the city. It wasn’t the stream. It was me. The same weakness I’d carried for years, that made me less than a man. Maybe I had never been a man. Maybe I had never even truly existed. After all, what is existence without strength? Without impulse? Without asserting oneself?

  Nietzsche said that weakness was not an absence of strength, but a state of mind—a choice. And looking at that reflection in the stream, I realized he was right. I chose to be this way. Maybe not consciously, but I chose. I chose to be a stream that carries other people’s garbage instead of a river that breaks mountains.

  And now, the moon looked at me as if to say: “What are you going to do about it, Micah? Are you going to continue?”

  I didn’t have the answer. And maybe I never would.

  I jumped over the iron railing, its peeling paint revealing the rusted interior. I walked to the concrete edge and stood there, staring down, the light breeze carrying the smell of carrion like a calling—as if I had always belonged among the waste of that dark stream. If I dove headfirst, I would die instantly from my skull striking one of the pipes, or drown slowly in the filthy waters stretching from east to west. My lungs would fill, I would thrash by instinct, my life would flash before my eyes, and I would die as just another unknown.

  I would probably be listed as missing, and my case would be archived after a few days, while my body became one with the body of water, the smell of my decomposition mixing with that of feces.

  I looked at the stream, and the stream looked back at me—my end less than a step away. And yet I felt a shiver down my spine, cold sweat running down my neck and staining my worn shirt. I plunged into fear the same way I would plunge into the water, and fell backward onto the concrete. Sharp pain spread through my body after the impact, and I gasped as my heart exploded out of my chest.

  I calmed myself while staring at the night sky, still lying on my back on the cold concrete, with a persistent pain across my entire back scolding my recklessness. I didn’t even have the strength to end my suffering. I clenched my fists, my teeth ached from how hard I was biting down, and I finally cried. My sobs echoed across the avenue, waking several dogs that barked insistently. My tears soaked my face and vanished into my red hair. My throat felt like it was being stabbed by barbed wire as I released my trapped frustration.

  Throughout my crying, I remained alone. And as my sobs faded, my vision clearing as my tears dried, I realized an unusual silence had taken over everything around me. The dogs and their chorus of barking were gone. The cars that wandered the avenue were gone. The babbling of junkies—any minimal sign of life—was gone.

  I got up and walked back the way I had come, my footsteps and heartbeat the only sounds to be heard. I jumped the railing again and looked at the avenue. To the left, nothing. To the right, nothing. No cars, no people, no dogs—not even a rat or a single insect. There wasn’t a single light; the streetlamps and even the lights from every house were off, except for the moon, which remained imposing in the sky. The stars had disappeared—only the moon monopolized all the light.

  Suddenly, the air around me seemed to vibrate, as if the night itself were holding its breath. The moonlight became intense, blinding, and a sudden pain tore through my c?r?a?n?i?u?m? l????????????i??????k?????????e????????? a???????????? b?????????????????????????????l????????????????????????????????? a??????????????????????????? d??????????e—

  Micah staggered.

  He tried to regain his balance, but the world around him began to spin. Something was wrong. He felt the ground slip beneath his feet, but… “wait, how does he know that? I’m on concrete, not dirt.”

  How DARE you correct me, kid?

  Was he seeing this happen, or was someone—something—seeing it for him?

  His vision blurred. He fell to his knees, feeling as if he were being pulled somewhere, invisible hands tearing his soul out—but they weren’t his hands. Something was watching. Something was telling the story in his place now.

  “What’s happening?” he shouted.

  The question echoed, but it was not heard. Because he was no longer in control.

  The moonlight enveloped him completely, blinding him. He was only a fragment—something watching from inside his own body as it was swallowed by the void.

  And then the voice emerged. Distant, deep, a whisper. But it was not for him.

  It’s time.

  Everything disappeared…