Why Would I Care? By Mariia Skyrta

I am the last person to leave

the building today as usual. On Fridays, it’s easier because they all try to leave earlier and hurry to the place they call home. And when they get home, they would order unpalatable pizza from a local diner, turn some stupid comedy on and share what they call “a pleasant evening” with people they call family. Good, I don’t have to pretend that this is the life I dreamt about, like they do.

I despise them and all their little chats on the lunch break, when they kindly ask each other how is their children or husband, or wife – people they genuinely don’t give a damn about. At first, they tried to engage me in that stupid talk, but after a few weeks finally gave up and left me alone, just like I wanted.

The streets are empty, probably, today is a baseball game or football, or whatever stupid games they like to watch other people play on the big stadium. I like the streets better this way, without people. I take my phone out to turn the music in the headphones on.

Suddenly I hear a cry for help coming from the darkness of the gateway. I can’t see her, but I’m sure it’s a woman’s voice. She screams again. She begs for someone to come and help her.

No one came, when I cried for help. The best thing they could do was to take me to the orphanage and forget about me. At first they tried to take me to my father, but he was as drunk as a lord and couldn’t even speak clearly. I have never seen him again.

The orphanage was awful. The teachers shouted at me for running around the room, then shouted for standing still and I could never please them. When no one watched they beat me.

At first, I felt relieved to finally leave this place, when I turned eighteen. Turned out, the world wasn’t waiting for me with arms wide open. I had nothing and people treated me like I was nothing.

I worked at the most miserable jobs. I picked up the trash and cleaned the sewerage pipes, until I finally had enough money to buy myself a computer. Then I learned some programming and got that job in the office. Sometimes my colleges annoyed me, but I didn’t have to speak to them often, so life was quite bearable.

The woman screamed again, louder. The street is empty, no one to hear her except me. I put my headphones on, turn the volume up and walk away.

No one helped me then, a helpless little boy crying for help on the street. No one came, when the robber pointed a gun at my mother and pulled the trigger. No one cared about me ever since her death. Why would I care?