Damn my life, damn them, damn it all.

Today was one of those days that test the will of even the most hellbent. It zapped the life right out of me. Working as a waiter through the day and doing Uber deliveries with my bike through the night has left me dead on my feet, or should I say bike. I finished only recently and can barely stay awake as I drive.

It's 11 p.m. now and the pitch blackness of the night is barely held at bay by the decrepit city lights. 

The light doesn't reach the road and as I speed towards home, I run into my third pothole of the day. My cheap motorbike staggers and emits a dubious clinking sound that makes me wince internally.

A weak bubble of anger manages to rise out of my tired body. Where the hell is all the money they leach of me for taxes going? Nothing ever gets fixed in this shithole, the crimes, the road. It's always the same, I think, not for the first time.

As I turn right and round the corner I can spot the unintelligible green graffiti that colors the otherwise grey apartment I live in.

I slow down and quickly remove the keys out of my zip-up jacket, looking this way and that before I open the door. 

Once it's open, I drag the bike with me inside. Just as speedily, I close the door before some hooligan can break in. Once burned twice shy, I think to myself.

As always, the way up the stairs with the motorbike is a herculean struggle. Luckily it is light as bikes go, since it is one of those cheap, thin ones.

When I finally enter my apartment and put the bike against the wall, I all but collapse, fatigue rearing its ugly head.

How I wish my parents were still alive and I living from their money. Nothing has been the same since they died, bouncing from one host family to the next with nothing but bad experiences to show for. Sometimes I wonder if I should have just put up with it. At least then I wouldn't have to pay rent.

Even though I am tired and my bed keeps drawing my eyes like a lodestone, I walk towards the plastic table in my shoebox of an apartment and sit down to practice some more with the lockpicking tools I bought some days ago.

My survivalist friend, Calvin showed me how defenseless most locks are. With just a pick and a tension torque you'd be surprised the number of doors you could open in seconds. This, unfortunately, includes my door. Frankly, it scared the shit out of me and made me wish I had the money to buy a secure lock. The only thing that allows me to sleep at night is the fact that break ins are rare.

I am not really sure what made me start practicing with this skill. But, if I had to pin it down, I'd attribute it to it being easy to learn and manufacture the tools with random pieces of metal and wire, as well as it being potentially useful in some nebulous future situation. I've always been weird like that, picking useful skills here and there.

It doesn't take too long before I am able to set all the pins and hear the satisfying noise of the lock turning.

After a few tries, I get bored and drop them unceremoniously on the table. Alas, one of the tools slides down the length of it due to it being uneven and falls to the floor.

I swear, I don't know from what dumpster my landlord finds this garbage.

I sigh and bend down to pick it up, but that is when I notice a conspicuous envelope lying on the floor by the door. Must have missed it when I walked in.

I leave the tool in the table and go to pick it up. I then tear it open and extract its contents.

It reads: Estimated Jesse Scaurgez,

It is with regret that we inform you that your grandmother from the side of your father has passed away. Your presence is required at the Scaurgez estate this Saturday two hours past midday.

You need not bring anything. We are aware of the difficulties that this request can entail and so are prepared to dispense adequate reparation in the form of three hundred US dollars for the sole action of attending and participating in the inheritance screening process.

In consideration of the fact that your eminent grandmother, Ariadne Scaurgez, has verily left everything in her possession to one heir that will be chosen through a screening process based on her instructions, we must notify you that as of this moment, you possess equal opportunity as the rest of your family to win vast wealth.

Herein is the address in case you are in need of direction: 11 Summit Street, Helbinh Pass.

Yours truly,

The Morgan & Crane LLP.

Phone number: (630) 630-6300

--------

The week passed uneventfully and I couldn't stop thinking about today.

I had to leave with a lot of time in advance since the estate is far from the city, in some town in the middle of nowhere. I prepared a backpack with some water and a winter coat, in case it got colder later.

I had to take a greyhound bus to get here. I tried to nap through the ride, but did not get as much rest as I had hoped since some fat lady kept talking in the phone and the driver did nothing.

The town wasn't was more developed than I expected. My father moved out of the family before I was born and I've never been out of the city.

Right now, I am heading towards information desk here at the bus station.

There are some people here and there, but it seems they must all know the way, because no one is in line. I walk the cordoned path to the desk and the black lady greets me with a smile.

"Hi. What can I do for'ya."

"Um, hi. You wouldn't know how to get to 11 Summit Street. I'm kinda lost, haha."

Her expression sours.

"What business do you have up there, in that manor." She said, now giving me suspicious and appraising look. Then as if struck by some outrageous idea, she follows up with, "Don't tell me you are part of that god-forsaken family!"

At this, her coworkers and even some of the other lounging travelers give me some hard stares.

This is getting a little heated. Time to defuse the situation.

"Look, miss. I am not sure were all this anger is coming from." I say, giving her an expression somewhere between sad and apologetic. "I'm new here. What's the matter with them?"

It is effective. Most of the onlookers lose interest in our conversation, finding their phones or other things more entertaining. The woman has also been appeased and now leans in, as if she were about to deliver a juicy piece of gossip.

"Forgive me, it's just that these folks are... strange...evil," she says, pausing, looking me in the eyes to form a connection, for dramatic effect.

It doesn't seem like she'll volunteer anything else without me asking, so I bite the bullet, "What do you mean?"

"There are stories, you know." she replies. "They have always been hated here. My parents and grandparents used to tell me to stay away from them. That people they didn't like disappeared. They are always getting up to some form of trouble in town, insulting folk and such."

Her female coworker or friend, a trashy looking, gaunt, blonde with radioactive yellow nails, chooses this moment to pipe in, "They say they have these, like, massive orgies up there. That they con..."--she pauses, trying to find the word--"consort! Yeah, they consort with the devil and sacrifice people, you get what I mean?"

What do you even say to this?

"Well, thanks for warning me. I'll take it into consideration. But, I still need money; I'm broke, you know how it is. So, how do I get there?"

They both sigh and black girl said, "Yeah, we know how the hustle can be. Just be careful, okay?"

Yellow nails takes out a paper and pen, "Just in case, let me write it down for you in case you forget."

A few seconds later she is done, I thank them, and then begin the journey up the hill were the manor is located.

The manor looks imposing and stalwart.

Based on what the people at the station were saying I expected the building to be something straight out of a horror movie, but instead it just looks plain if somewhat on the expensive side. It is surrounded by a wall with metal spikes jutting upwards. And, at the center of it, bisecting it, is a gate made of those same black metal bars.

As I make my way to it, I see some individuals idling about. They all track me with their gazes.

I continue my walk towards the gate and as a result get closer to a short, old man that is between me and the gate, just standing here...doing nothing.

He smiles up at me placidly, languidly, displaying a set disgusting yellow teeth, a few gaps here and there.

What are all these random people doing here, standing in front of the manor?

"What are you all doing here, old timer?" I ask him in a calm tone.

He just smiles me that rotten smile of his, vaguely mocking. The rest of them also choose to keep silent, preferring to gaze at me in a disturbing manner.

No use reacting here. They are probably trying to get a rise out of me and if they aren't... well, they are legion and I am one.

I don't see a ringer at the gate, so I try pushing it open; it's not locked, so I make my way through an unremarkable garden's stone path, towards the porch.

Here there is a ringer next to the door. But before I can ring it, the door opens and a man in a suit greets me, offering me a hand shake.

He seems to be somewhere in the 40s range at a glance. His brown hair is gelled backwards in a neat manner and his hand sports what looks to be a expensive watch, silver, with golden geometric patters inscribed.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Crane," he said, in a rich baritone voice as we shake hands. "The rest are all accounted for, so you must be Jesse."

"Likewise. Yes, that's me." I answer. I am fairly sure he is one of the lawyers and not one of the family. So I don't ask him who he is.

"Perfect"--he gestures for me to step inside while he holds the door with his other hand-"Please, do step inside. There are some refreshments inside in case you are tired from you travel."

I walk and he falls instep to my left.

The inside looks different from the outside. It is less spartan. There are rugs, beautiful wooden furniture, stone fireplaces, it has it all. That isn't to say it looks like extravagant. It portrays the image of wealth but not of luxury.

As we approach a set of double doors, the sounds of yelling and cursing reach us. The lawyer does not react in any way, only to open the doors. We enter a large living room room filled with people, some of which possess a dim resemblance to me. Many of them are well dressed in fine clothes and an aura of arrogance. Others are more casual, with jeans and t-shirts.

They all stare or glare at us as we walk in. More of them than I'd like stare contemptuously at my clothes, even though I came with my best set of jeans and a dress shirt.

"Who is this tyke," exclaims a red headed guy dressed in suit with a red tie.

"Why do you have to be such a cunt, Damian!" sneers a blonde girl. "Do you have such a small amount of self worth that you have a constant drive to tell people how much better than them you are?"

A woman, dressed in a glimmering dress, nearby her puts a hand in her shoulder and chastises her, "Compose yourself, Cecily. Do not stoop to their level."

Cecily is opening her mouth, about to protest, but Crane interrupts, addressing the three camps of people in the room, "Please, gentlemen and ladies, allow me to interrupt for but a moment," he said, smiling serenely, "Now that our final arrival is here, we can proceed with the selection process. Time is running and we may have to charge extra if things drag on too long.

Please follow Morgan and I to that room over there one at a time."

A taciturn, brunette woman dressed business style with pant suits crosses the room and stands side by side with Crane. She opens a dark brown leather folder and inspects the papers, then having made a decision, she calls out, "Jeremy, please come with us."

The three of them walk towards the room and close the door shut. I expected more people in the room to act in a nervous or anxious manner, but most wear poker faces, their facial muscles concrete. Others are indifferent.

Already members of the three groups flock to me, like vultures sensing carrion.

"I think I speak for most of us when I say that I have never seen you before in my life," some middle aged lady said, contempt and distrust evident in her eyes.

There are sounds of agreement scattered around the room.

"I am Nichola's son, Jesse," I say. "It's nice to meet you."

A man, behind me, out of vision, claps in the back, startling me. He gives a booming laugh, his brown curly hair and glasses shaking with it.

"Hahaha, so you are the son of Nico, the black sheep, the outcast," he cheers, shinning me a knowing grin, "How is that little rascal doing these days?"

"He's dead actually," I answer, sporting a poker face myself, giving him nothing.

Another older woman pipes in, "So, what? Now you, a bastard, a..."--she looks pointedly at my clothes--"questionable beggar, have come to steal what is not yours?! Ridiculous! You are not even part of this family!"

Cecily's mother slides closer to me, placing a reassuring hand in my head. "Leave the boy alone, Linda. He is part of the family for better or worse and I will not have you harassing him in this manner," she said, her voice soft and soothing.

"Why protect him, Synthia? There is nothing to be gained from him; fifteen to one he needs the money for drugs," ventured Damian gazing at us analytically.

"Just like your sister then," hisses a guy with black hair and green eyes, a member of the third group.

This seems to serve as a signal to her one of the groups in the room--her group--and they all start arguing again, group against group, family against family.

As the thirteen people in the room--my family--quarrel, I move towards Cecily and Synthia, wanting to thank them, hoping for an ally or some help in this hostile environment.

Synthia is relatively silent, only making the occasional comment here and there. Cecily, on the other hand, argues with fervor, joined by a middle aged man. A young, dirty-blonde guy stands with them, silent and playing some game on his phone.

They notice me as I draw near and Synthia greets me with a slight smile, "Jesse, right? Sorry about all of"--she waves her hand slowly around the room--"this. Are you okay?"

"I guess. I really didn't expect to be received like this. But, thanks for the save, really," I say trying to inject as much sincerity as I can into the words.

"Do not worry about it," she said, her soothing voice a pleasure to listen too. She must have practiced her oratory skills to speak in such a manner. "But I forget my manners. Let me introduce you to my family.

"This is my son, Jezal." He grunts something unintelligible as hello. Synthia pats her daughter's head, "And, this here is my daughter, Cecily"--she gives me a look overflowing with suspicion--"Last, but not least, my partner, Chase." The man steps forwards and offers me a hand shake and a greeting.

"Anyhow, you said you were from the city, right? You must have traveled a long way. If you want y-"

The man with brown curls and glasses from before interrupts her, "Always trying to ingratiate yourself, eh, Synthia. You attract more bees with honey and all that... but then again, who needs honey with that obscene body of yours." The man makes a move a half-hearted grab at one of her plump breasts held tight in that dress of hers. However, Chase steps up and bats his hand away, his face a mask of barely restrained rage.

"Ow," he said, still grinning contemptuously. "I know that it must be difficult to contain your nature, you know, being a mongrel from some slum or another, but in this family, violence is not the way."

"What do you want, Theodore?" asks Synthia, perfectly calm, bored. If the event bothered her, she shows no sign of it.

At this, Theodore wraps an arm around my shoulders in a friendly manner, "Only to protect the boy

"Listen to me Jamie, Jailey, whatever your name is. I was married to this woman before--I know all about her. She is heartless, took those kids in the divorce"--he points to Cecily and Jezal--"and raised them against me.

"One moment she is all smiles, but the next, when your use has expired, she will drop you like trash."

Synthia is not impressed, "You are not a stable individual, Theodore. I did what I had to."

Things have grown quite heated and the rest of the family has sensed as sure as the bird senses the changing pressure before the storm, drawing near. Including Theodore's new wife, Linda.

"You tramp, you wouldn't know the first thing about Theo," she screeches in a unpleasantly high voice.

Theodore family of 6 and Synthia's glare at each other, tension palpable, a new fight begging to break out.

But before the room descends to bickering, the door opens and the lawyers call the next person in.

Time passes. I speak with Synthia whenever I can and she explains the family dynamics to me. The three families: her's, Theodore's, and Aunt Olivia's. Fifteen people total, fifteen competitors. What's that? A 6.66 chance of me winning if it isn't rigged?

Synthia offers me to give me a portion of the inheritance if she wins if I will do the same. It only be a small fraction of the millions the house and its possessions are worth. A hundred thousand.

I agree, since I am unlikely to win and don't lose anything by agreeing. After all, I can always fall back on my word.

After a while, I find a comfortable couch to settle down in.

With nothing better to do, I pull out my phone and check my messages. Unread messages from Sarah and Tom.

Sarah: How's it going Jesse? Millionaire already? 2:10 p.m.

You: Man, I feel so out of place. Theres just so much drama going on here. Cant wait to get the money and gtfo. Wyd? 4:24 p.m.

I check Tom's messages while I wait for her reply.

Tom: bro just woke up wasted af. last night was crazy! you missed it! me and calvin went to the usual place. man there were so many biches. 3:35 p.m.

but get this calvin got ecstasied by some crazy bitch. slipped the pill into his mouth while he was kissin. 3:35 p.m.

motherfucker went crazy. started dancing with them hookers on stage. bouncers beat him to a pulp and kicked us out!! 3:36 p.m.

ps that hooker sindy asked abot u. u should og with her some time. prime rib that. 3:36 p.m.

You: No way, he okay? 4:25 p.m.

You: I don't know man... she probably has 10 stds. 4:27 p.m.

Sarah: Oh, no! I wish I should have gone with you to support you! 4:28 p.m.

Sarah: Don't worry to much about it though. Family is who you love not who you share blood with. You still have us! 4:28 p.m.

You: From the little I've seen of this people, they wouldn't have let you in, probably. Yeah, I know Sarah, you guys are the best. We should all get together when I get back. 4:29 p.m.

Tom: bro just wear a condom. condoms are there for that reason easy fix. for that ass id get hiv no problemo. but seriously though she is a nice girl jesse she cares about u. 4:29 p.m.

Sarah's messages make me think about her. I've had a crush on her for the longest time, but I didn't want to ruin our friendship and kept quiet.

I think about her red-black hair and freckles, the way they shine in the sunlight. I think about how when she smiles, she tries to cover her slightly crooked teeth, embarrassed they won't look good. An impossible task, for when she is with me she sooner or later laughs hysterically about something I said, forgetting all about it.

My thoughts are interrupted by Crane.

"Jesse, please come in," he said in that baritone voice of his.

I walk inside, getting glares from some of the more unsavory family members.

One of the lawyers closes the door, while the other pushes the seat back for me, eerily in sync.

They both take seats in front of me, Crane clasping his hands together, Morgan checking her clipboard.

"Time is precious, so we best begin," said Crane. "If you'd be so kind, Morgan."

The stoic lady directs her piercing stare at me, her eyes blue sapphires.

"Mr. Scaurgez, I have what I am sure you could call your record in my possession."

Her voice is terribly monotone.

"Herein I have attached what appears to be a record of your grades throughout all of your school career. High G.P.A., good recommendations, even an internship," she states, looking at her clipboard.

"Pheeew," whistles Crain, with a cynical grin. "We seem to have a gunner here, Morg. Kid will go far, do you not think so?"

"Ahem, perhaps, but there seem to be some irregularities. He bounced from home to home, problems fitting in maybe?"

She ponders this for a moment and then stares into my eyes again.

"What are you running from, Jesse? What are you so afraid of?" she asks, her voice steel.

There's something about her eyes, something that tears the memory, kicking and screaming, from the depths of my mind that I'd rather forget forever.

I try my best to block it out, to forget that experience--the way I was preyed on. A moment passes and when I finally manage to do so, I notice that I am shaking like a leaf. I can't look at her. I can only look at the floor, the soles of my shoes. They are vans, red, Sarah often tells me they look nice and-

"Mentally weak this one, with quite a bit of baggage, or so it seems," she says nodding to herself.

Fear turns to anger, anger to rage. Fuck them! I'm gonna flip the table onto them!

"You don't know nothing, bitch!" I yell, putting all of my strength into it.

The table fli-

Crane stops me. Even though I am pushing with all of my might, face red with the strain, this fucker is holding it down with one hand, still sitting down. Morgan is looking at her shitty clipboard.

"Haha, spirit! I like it!" he says, amused "But let us calm down, yes? We are almost done here."

"We will just need a few drops of your bodily fluids for a test. You know, DNA and such," says Morgan in perfect sync.

I am still fuming. The last thing I want is to keep going with this farse.

"No, give me the money. I am getting out of this shithole," I hiss.

"Regrettably, you will need to finish the process to receive the compensation," Morgan tells me, with a stone face.

Normally, I'd take it and be done with it, but the memory has driven me into a frenzy. I can not back down now, money or no money. "Fuck this, I'm leaving."

Crane bursts out of his seat and is behind me in a blink. He grabs my right arm, his grip unbreakable, my bones creaking.

"It appears the gentleman has had a change of heart, Morgan," he said, still smiling as he drags me back to the table. "Please continue and take the blood."

"This can't be legal! What kind of a fucking lawyer are you?!" I scream at the top of my lungs.

"Trust me, I am familiar with many laws and legal codes. And there is a certain one that permits this," he responds.

Morgan uses a fancy, engraved, black syringe to draw my blood. She pricks my finger and after a few seconds withdraws.

"All done now, sir. It was not so bad, was it?" Morgan said "In six days you will be notified of the results of the testing along with the others. That is all."

Humiliated, impotent, and three hundred dollars richer, I close the door behind me.

Fourteen sets of eyes stare at me and I wonder how much they heard of the exchange. But, I soon disregard the notion, since I could not hear the others and some of them put their ears to the door, trying to spy to no avail.

Synthia offers me a place at her house for the night out of courtesy. I politely decline and make my way to the bus station, and, eventually, home sweet home.

Six days pass and the decision comes out, surprising no one, I am not chosen. Some girl from Olvia's faction, Berenice, gets picked. I hear from the lawyers that she made the vicious decision of keeping it all to herself--not sparing a dime for even her parents.

At least I got the three hundred.