We Were Born

Grzegorz Kunowski

We Were Born

Copyright © 2023 by Grzegorz Kunowski

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Grzegorz Kunowski asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

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Contents

1. Prologue

2. April Year 5

3. September Year 1

4. November Year 1

5. Christmas Year 1

6. February Year 1

7. April Year 1

8. May Year 1

9. Summer Year 1

10. September Year 2

11. November Year 2

12. Christmas Year 2

13. January Year 2

14. February Year 2

15. March Year 2

16. April Year 2

17. May Year 2

18. July Year 2

19. Summer Year 2

20. September Year 3

21. November Year 3

22. Christmas Year 3

23. January Year 3

24. March Year 3

25. April Year 3

26. June Year 3

27. Summer Year 3

28. September Year 4

29. October Year 4

30. Christmas Year 4

31. January Year 4

32. March Year 4

33. April Year 4

34. May Year 4

35. June Year 4

36. Summer Year 4

37. September Year 5

38. October Year 5

39. November Year 5

40. March Year 5

A note from the author

1

Prologue

Greetings.

The original owner of these letters came to despise them. Although, this is my first and final letter to you, I have attached all the others before it is too late. You will find them inside this envelope, yours is at the top. Perhaps you will find some use for them.

2

April Year 5

There’s this universal moment in life that we’ve all experienced at some point. It’s that brief second when you’re with someone and you both look at the same person, without exchanging a single word, yet somehow, you know the other person is thinking the same thing as you: what went wrong? It’s the kind of situation where nobody really knows what happened, a moment when a person who cares about you tells you that they don’t have the slightest clue about who you are any more, even though that’s who you’ve always been, in one form or another.

To those who always believed in me, but I still managed to disappoint; I’m sorry.

My actions have led to the deaths of several people. These pages are my confession.

Not many have been on either side of this experience. It’s a terrible feeling when someone you deeply care about has given up, and you can’t understand why. You want them to keep trying because you believe they can be better; you need them to be better. It’s a selfish love. Yet, no matter what you do, they become a hollow shell of their former self, fading away day by day. It’s a true loss.

From the other side of the pond, it feels like you’re just free falling. No matter what you do, it seems inconsequential as long as the people around you are okay. You believe you don’t matter, that you’re beyond saving, and keeping people close will only end up hurting them. So, although they might never know it, pushing them away is what saved them…from you.

There’s this notion about crossing lines and stages, but it ain’t true. As far as I’m concerned, there’s one defining moment, and once you cross that single line, you can never go back. It’s the moment you badly beat someone up, ruin their life, or even end it. The time when you’ve truly decided to hurt someone ruthlessly is the same moment when, maybe not in the eyes of the law, but for your psyche, everything changes.

You’re never the same after that moment because you know what you’re capable of. You realize you truly desired to inflict devastating pain on another human being, and if you found some enjoyment in the act, then you’re beyond redemption, struggling with yourself, even if you commit no crimes.

What was my moment? you ask.

It was split into three. The first part is that moment of disbelief people experience. I’ll never forget the expression on her face when she told me that she doesn’t have a single clue about who I am. Who I really am, that is. Well, that’s actually a lie, you shouldn’t trust me, you’ll see. She doesn’t either any more, and I don’t blame her.

The day was cloudy, sometime mid-week. I had already decided on my crime, and that’s all that mattered. Because there are two reasons I did things: self-preservation and ambition. This was the former. That morning, it was already clear what needed to be done on my part, and that’s why I was carrying a knife. There was simply no other choice; it had to be me or him.

Want some advice?

Jab, pull out, and repeat. Over and over quickly if you really want it done.

None of that Hollywood twisting shit or special 4th rib crap, go for the gut area and don’t stop.

I looked at him once, then twice in the distance. He wasn’t alone but with a group. My knife was in my upper pocket, and I felt every single gram of it. It didn’t matter what the others there did, only he mattered. I started walking towards them, unable to take my eyes off the group, consumed by rage because that mental bridge had already been crossed.

And I wasn’t sorry; I did what I had to do, always, or at least that was my belief. My hand slid nicely as the distance closed, finding the knife and pulling it. I’m sorry. The distance closed even further until one of them saw me. He didn’t care, and neither did I. Yet, just as my weapon left my pocket and slid to my side, I was loudly interrupted, but I kept getting closer.

Wait! a somehow familiar voice called out. I wanted any reason not to take that life. I truly did, but I felt I had no choice. He had to die, or I would. Another figure from the group shot me a watchful, stern look. It was now or never. My hand was ready for sin, but just as the distance closed and I had the tiniest doubts about pulling through, approaching footsteps gained on me even faster. I was so close, with the tiniest glimmer of doubt, but an arm latched onto me from behind, stopping me from advancing and making that decision for me.

It was a friend whose face I could recognize anywhere. We shook hands in what was one of our many daily greetings before he spoke, out of breath, Haven’t you heard? They’ve forfeited. In that moment, I stopped in my tracks. There was hope and a choice after all.

Temporary silence always makes people want to talk; they feel incomplete otherwise. They’ve apologized too because you’re part of the family, he emphasized, with a slight wink at the end. That was the moment when I felt a great win. Victory would have been mine anyway, but only at a pyrrhic cost. This had truly saved me. Although he survived, not even knowing that was the day he would have been killed, a part of me had died.

My downfall wouldn’t occur that day, as I lived to see the light of morning again. However, that day, which would come and ruin everything I worked for, did arrive in time.

I’m a fool, you see, just one with extensive ambition and a hell-bent will to execute.

My story begins in the utter melting pot that is school, high school, to be precise. It was an ugly and poor place; the building used to be a hospital they never hesitated to remind us. Yet, it clearly wasn’t important enough as a hospital, or they would have taken better care of it all those years ago. Truth is, I didn’t care much about the architecture. The main thing I have to agree with, however, is the notion that it’s the people who define a place rather than its buildings.

And I’m not talking about your lazy geniuses or hard-working enormities. I’m talking about your alkies and druggies, the suicidal ones who have even attempted and woken up in the hospital. I’m talking about the prodigies and the kids with problems at home who take it out on those who never stand up for themselves. There are also oddballs, like one person who had gay sex with their older sibling at the age of eleven. These are the things that make people interesting, not just what they know in math or interpret from a chapter of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. A person’s value extends far beyond these things, even though most adults never seem to grasp this.

Who am I? Well, that doesn’t really matter. But you can call me Prometheus; that’s what I’m known as. What actually matters is whether I’m a good person, but that’s for you to decide. You have my word that I won’t try to manipulate you for whatever little value that may have. As for what I look like and where I come from, it really doesn’t matter.

A very interesting fact of life I’d like you to know is that when you meet a group of strangers, you can convince them of nearly anything about yourself. One group may see you as lowlife scum from a distant corner of the Earth, while another group may label you as a genius with the highest standards of ethics from the golden capital. People already develop an opinion about you within seconds of seeing you. Who you desire to be portrayed as is ultimately in your hands, and the character you play.

I still vividly remember my first day at the age of twelve.

3

September Year 1

I could tell you about the weather today, but I’m certain you don’t actually care, and secondly, I barely even remember. I wouldn’t lie to you about that. I’m not a liar. There was this person called Abderus; he didn’t appear local but sounded like it in all the positive ways—well-spoken. Others frowned at that, but I couldn’t help appreciating it. Whenever you are brought to a new place where you’ll remain, it’s an ecosystem really, with a hierarchy of beings thrashing it out in one form or another.

That hierarchy is precisely why the first impression is crucial. Any friendly figures to help define this good position of yours are literal gold. For me, that was Abderus. At this time, I have no certainty about what will become of us, but I can tell you now, we will likely become great friends. Help and kindness are something that is shown voluntarily, almost always a thing that I never forget but try to generously repay when the time comes.

As for grudges, those aren’t held lightly by me. Settling scores and then forgiving serious ordeals is my philosophy. Nothing without necessity. I’m a very forgiving person, you’ll see. If that’s what you want to see in me, it’ll be easy, but it’s fine if you think otherwise. I won’t hold it against you.

Askalabos was a very different figure, one with a brutish nature. The type that appears harsh and preys on the seemingly weak, but calling him stupid would be far from the truth. Ignorant and foolish to an extent; nothing more. He scanned me up and down with curious eyes, trying to work out if I could be one of his lot before saying, you’re from across the city, aren’t you? You know Ligyrios then, he said with a cheek before adding snarly, he’s a loser with no friends, yeah?

I despised such people and behaviour. How dare he? I knew Ligyrios well enough and even considered him my own friend. What he thought of me, I never knew, although I hoped he held similar opinions. Yeah, I blurted in a normal tone to not show my anger once I gathered my thoughts. It was only after the unwanted laughs and weird tribalistic approval that the realization of my agreement hit me. It’s not what I wanted to say. How stupid of me! Askalabos was pleased with me, yet it didn’t matter. His opinion was irrelevant.

What would Abderus think?

Not much, it turned out. He didn’t find out about my mistaken agreement that had been bugging me all day. If he did find out, then he didn’t care; they had no proof for the others’ existence, and rightfully so. The two of them shared some similarities, like their love for sci-fi space television and, to a lesser extent, food. Don’t get me wrong, they weren’t overweight; they simply had a bit more belly than was expected at that age. Not that I ever gave a damn.

Soon enough, all the observations were over. I listened to the teacher eagerly, despite it being art, something I had no care nor talent for. Because it was clear to me that when it comes to education, there are only two types of people: those who succeed and those who fail. When you’re a bastard from the inner city, you know that the only way to have a better life is through a legitimate job. For this, you need the papers. Hence, education, and it’s free after all.

That’s why I paid attention and tried, because those letters and numbers that defined what I would and wouldn’t be able to do were important. Nobody was going to give me anything without working for it; nobody was going to care about me or want me. I had to earn it. Yes, it’s the harder road, and it was always a struggle, just as it was for everyone else. I took little to no enjoyment in it, but it was a necessary struggle. And I looked down upon those who never bothered. How can somebody never even try? How can somebody be so complacent?

After class was over, I left with Abderus and one other person. It’s clear that the reason Abderus and I got along so well was that we both wanted to be distinguished. You need to understand that when there are fewer things separating individuals, those differences are magnified. The good student is punctual, takes care in what they do, completes their work, and achieves high marks. The good student also dresses more ‘properly’ with well-fitting clothes and smart, polished shoes. Shirts are tucked in, and ties fit well. Then there’s what you say, how you say it, how you walk, and act. So, that tiny speck of dirt on your shoes is what might separate you from scum in the eyes of the world.

It’s a strange experience growing up, desperately trying to be anything but what’s all around you and seemingly natural. It’s like learning a new language that nobody else understands. But you tell yourself that you don’t have a choice. It’s hard, and I wish I didn’t have to do it.

The other boy with us is called Apollo; he has very messy hair. Apollo and Abderus had been best friends for years, and it didn’t take long for us to also become friends. Very quickly, the three of us were close. You wouldn’t say that you knew any of us well, as we all tended to be quiet around strangers or even colleagues. Not that there’s much of a difference.

During our breaks, we always went to this one spot that was tucked away from everyone else, difficult to find and far to reach. It felt safe. There were certain places around we simply didn’t go to. I’m not sure why. They would never tell me.

Shortly after, some teacher took me out of class, asked me a bunch of questions, and then gave me a bunch of tests to do. One test was math; it wasn’t difficult, and I knew I could do most of the questions, but I simply didn’t remember a lot of the work. Surely, they don’t expect us to do math during Summer for fun. Do what is required, no more, no less. Another test was for English; they asked me about a few definitions related to things like sentence structure and then to write about last Summer. I only got one or two definitions and listed things from the recent Summer. They weren’t pleased.

We had another break before our final class, so the three of us went to our spot. I learned more about their backgrounds; for example, Abderus came from a rather strict religious background. To me, it doesn’t matter which, it’s the strict part that matters. He didn’t believe in it, though, not that his parents knew. Then there was Apollo, who was truly young at heart, which was strange because there were many minor instances that made me think he didn’t get much attention or care.

They asked me about my background, my family, and such. I didn’t say much. When admitting certain truths caused you a flurry of problems without end, you don’t admit them again because you don’t want to go back. You can’t go back. But I trust you enough to tell you a few things. The real question is where to start.

My aunt was a thief who was killed by being thrown off a moving train. I have uncles who have a lot more money than they should for the things they do, or perhaps for the things they don’t do. There are, of course, alcoholics, drug addicts, degenerates, and cheaters in my family. This doesn’t make them bad people, at least not in my eyes. But there definitely are some terrible people among us, those who don’t have the slightest care for their kids or siblings, to the extent of leaving them out to die. Simply put, there were generations of problems and poverty, including mine. I didn’t want to lie, so I said nothing. I still care for many of them deeply, more than they know. Maybe you can relate and understand why this was my choice.

I had nothing to be proud of, and it placed me in that exact category I was desperately trying to keep out of. It’s not about how much people achieve, but how much they climb. Not many people understand this. Most think that a rich man getting a bit richer is the pinnacle of success, but nobody cheers for the homeless man working for a home.

You want more details, right? Well, how about a person who was given up by their parents, put in an adoption home where they were abused, only to eventually leave, build some sort of life on their own with blood, sweat, and tears. They even met their biological parents and had their mother sweet talk them into giving