Hama lived in a depressing city, in a cold dystopian world. He was one of many people struggling to survive life. If that's what you could call it.
The sun never appeared from behind the clouds that blanketed the sky. Blue skies were nothing but a legend.
Everyday was the same. Wake up to the grey morning light, shuffle to the kitchen-like room, to fill a bucket with water, in order to wash himself. Then proceed to cook the processed mush--cheapest thing on the market--and eat it for breakfast, even though it's sickening grey color screamed "unnatural". Then back to the only other room in his apartment, the bedroom, to get dressed.
After that it was a "leisurely" walk to get to the 40 minute away factory in 15 minutes. When a grueling day of cussing and being cussed at, is over, it's back to the apartment for some more mush, and to try to squeeze some sleep out of the rock he called bed.
Hama lived everyday like this, hoping maybe one day there would be something else. What that something was he didn't know. But that hope was what kept him working the same routine and not killing himself with the sleeping pills he took every night. It was a pointless activity in the equally pointless world he lived in. That's why he felt it was better to end this way, saving someone else, if they even wanted that. If they were anything like him, they probably didn't. But he did it anyway, he stepped in front of the stabbing knife his friend's attacker wielded.
The blood dripped down, like his sanity had long before. The color soaked into his white t-shirt, creating a stark contrast that was very eye catching. Streams of blood began to swell on the ground.
Through the fading light Hama saw his friend looking at him panickedly, attacker looming over him, ready to strike again. In his mind Hama screamed at the man's stupidity "Just run! Who cares about me! Don't waste my sacrifice just run!" It left a bitter taste to think everything he did was for nothing, and now his death would be the same, for nothing.
So he croaked out his last words as he once again shielded his friend from death. "Just run...uhk!" The blade pierced his stomach, destroying the organs as it was pulled out in a twisting motion. He felt his friend's presence move away, but he never found out what happened to him in the end. Hama was long dead before then.
His funeral was dismal, the dark clouds that ever lingered in the sky were extra depressing, just for the occasion. An old woman he'd talk to on his way home from work everyday came up to his grave and placed a lone white lily there. She spoke to the deceased man in a wrinkly voice: "Here sweetheart you can have this, I know you loved to look at the small flower pots I had. It's the last to bloom this year. Probably the last forever." She smiled sadly and turned away.
A little girl he played with sometimes cried nearby as her father tried to comfort her.
His coworkers whom he'd shared playful jabs with everyday stood with hat's off and heads bowed. Sadness etched into their faces.
So many people were there, heck even the traffic cop who liked to have short conversations with him in the morning stood there. They all had one thing in common, they were sad at Hama's passing. But there was one person there who didn't care. The friend Hama protected. He just looked on with bored eyes, ready for the service to finish. They had known each other for years, and he owed a lot of money to Hama. He was the reason Hama only worked as a simple factory worker. He was responsible for Hama's cheap lifestyle because he was a leach.
Why had Hama saved him?
Well, even he deserved a chance. At least Hama thought so. Therefore he lives and Hama is dead. But in his heart does he not feel guilt? Yes, who could not. But he considers himself rotten. He too lived in the same dark, dystopian world, struggling for existence. Everyday he worked, too stubborn to give up, but it wasn't enough. He never got far and ended up living in an alley, ready to die, all stubbornness gone. It was Hama who saved him then, just as Hama saved him now. And Hama's existence will continue to remind him, even after his death, to keep trying.
Where he goes after that is another story.
Fini
