Forward

I hear what they say. I hear what they call me. I watch people dying, and know it must be wrong. I am selfish. But I must apologize; I know my existence to be wrong. Can you hear the voices crying in the night? See the people dying. Their hands are reaching up in prayer, begging to be heard.

A man is lost in the city. He has no money, no food, no home. Nothing but a few rags now. He has a family, and wishes to go home to them, but cannot afford the ticket. He traveled north from Mexico to pay for their meager existence but could barely pay for his. For all of his hard work, his boss has given him a powerful addiction to drugs and some spare change. Now, with his stomach and wallet empty, he wanders back to his homeland to search for his family, only to find his house full of strangers.

Another is lost, purely lost. He has no family, and to his knowledge never has. Never in his life has he harmed another soul. He has managed to gain a piece of bread from a man’s pity, but before he eats it he will see a boy who is hungrier than he. Then, three days from now, he will die of hunger alone on the streets. The first will live, though with much suffering. Why? Was one man more deserving than the other? Perhaps one cry for mercy was more eloquent?

Does it surprise you that I still dream, after everything that has happened? That someone like me still longs for her laughter…. Sometimes though, I can’t help but wonder if life is a mistake. After all, what are the chances of a planet being born with the correct proximity to the sun to provide the right amount of energy, with an orbit stable enough to permit life? Then consider the elemental content. If there had been less of a single element available in the atmosphere, life would fail. Less nitrogen, for example, and there could be no amino acids, and no life. There is enough ground for terrestrial life and enough mass for a gravitational pull sufficient enough for plants to remain in the ground. We are impossible, you see.

Now imagine, despite that we as men are impossible, the chance of a single being to be born as they are. Perhaps, when some ancestor was at war, a single bullet hit its target. No one around would stop to notice; it’s a war, it seems like nothing. But he is not the only one to die. He will have no children. They shall have no children. In killing one man you can kill all possible unborn spawn. A single bullet could kill a thousand people. And if he were to be your grandfather? Then it’d be all over, wouldn’t it? We can’t make you from nothing, after all. We’d have to start over, which is impossible. But then, we already are. So could we, if we began everything over again, recreate you? Or are you forever lost?

Sometimes I question my existence. What am I? Am I man? Am I beast? I could be merely a freak accident, a fluke. Perhaps, I think, I am simply dreaming. I will wake tomorrow, and all will be exactly as it once was. But then there comes another cry in the dark, and then another man must die again. Reality is relentless.

Tell me, what are the chances I could live again?

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A/N: Obviously, the forward is very vague, and that's intended. If you'd be so kind as to leave a review, feel free to make assumptions, jump to conclusions, etc. Same goes for later chapters. For this kind of story I want to be able to see the reader's thoughts, and I want to know if this should be more or less vague. And the title may be changed at some point. Thanks!