Taking the responsibility

 Jack

When I entered the house, I was startled to see around fifty people standing in line, bowing in respect. He, with an air of authority, commanded the maids to prepare the room. Without a word, he dragged me to a room adjacent to his, shoved me inside, and locked the door behind him. The room was dimly lit and unfamiliar, giving it a prison-like feel. Overcome with fear and confusion, I sobbed quietly, overwhelmed by the reality of my situation.

Suddenly, I heard the door open, and the figure from my nightmares appeared before me. Desperation surged through me, and I seized a gun from the table, pointing it at him. The surrealism of the moment left me paralyzed—how could anyone remain so composed while facing the threat of death?

He continued to advance towards me, his calm demeanor only heightening my fear. In a panic, I pulled the trigger. The gunshot rang out, and the bullet struck him. As he fell to the floor, blood staining the carpet, regret consumed me. Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. I had never intended for this to happen.

Within moments, the room filled with people. A man, appearing to be in his forties, took charge, calling for a doctor urgently. Another person rushed to his side, applying a handkerchief to the wound to stem the bleeding. The doctor arrived within ten minutes, skillfully removing the bullet and attending to his injuries.

I went to the doctor and asked the condition of him, 

"He is out of danger; due to anesthesia he will wake up by morning. I will come to checkup by morning." (Doctor)

After the doctor's intervention, a wave of relief washed over me, even as the gravity of the situation lingered. Once everyone had retreated to their rooms, I was left alone with him, my mind racing with shock and guilt for having put him in such danger. I sat beside his bed, closing my eyes, trying to escape the weight of my actions.

A feeling of being watched stirred me from my thoughts. I opened my eyes to find the room empty, with him still asleep. It was 7:30 a.m. I took a deep breath, composed myself, and left the room.

In the garden, I found a bench and sat down, the events of the previous night replaying in my mind. Tears streamed down my face as I grappled with the mess I had created. Then, a young boy, no older than six, approached me. With a gentle touch, he wiped away my tears, offering a small but profound comfort in the midst of my distress.

The boy's innocent voice broke through my tears. "Why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?" His concern was genuine and sweet. I shook my head to signal no.

"Did you do something bad and don't know what to do?" he asked gently. I nodded in agreement.

"For something so simple, why are you crying? If you did something wrong, just take responsibility. Once, I accidentally damaged my favorite plant. My father said to take responsibility, and together we planted a new one in its place."

I was stunned by his mature perspective, considering his young age. How could someone so small have such profound wisdom?

"I'm Win. Are you staying in this house?" he asked.

"I'm Jack. I'm not sure how long I'll be here," I replied.

"Okay, let's be friends now." Win gave me a warm hug, and for a brief moment, I felt a sense of comfort and connection.

As we spoke, I heard a maid's voice calling for him, saying it was time for school. I was about to inquire about him from the boys standing nearby when they received word that his boss was awake. With trepidation, I approached the door of the room, standing outside and peeking inside, unsure of how to face him.

As the room gradually emptied, the doctor emerged, advising that Marcus needed rest. The boys approached me, urging me to go inside the room. Fear gripped me—I worried he might fire me with the gun. Reluctantly, I entered the room, and the boys closed the door behind me.

"Come to me," Marcus instructed.

I approached him cautiously. "What is your name?" he asked, and I was taken aback. Why was he asking my name after everything that had happened?

"I'm Jack. And yours?"

"I'm Marcus. Haven't you heard of me?"

"Are you a god that I should know you? You're just an asshole, a bastard, and the creepiest person in the world, where the gun speaks louder than your stupid mouth," I retorted.

"Are you cursing me after what you did to me?" Marcus's voice was laced with irritation.

"If you don't want to see me, just leave me alone," I shot back.

"That's not going to happen. Tell me, how will you repay me for what you did?" Marcus demanded.

"I'm sorry for accidentally shooting you. From today until you're fully recovered, I'll take care of you," I offered.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes. Get well soon and be ready to fight back, because I'll make you pay for ruining my happiness," I said firmly.

"I'm always up for adventures. For now, help me with something. I'll give you a number—dial it and hand it to me."

I picked up the mobile and started dialing the number he provided. Just as I was about to press the dial button, I accidentally hit erase. As Marcus began to recite the number again, I quickly dialed it from memory. Marcus looked at me in shock as he completed the call.

"How did you dial the number after deleting it?" he asked, puzzled.

"It's just photographic memory. When you said the numbers, I visualized them and recalled them even after the deletion," I explained.

"And you're the clumsiest person I've ever met," he remarked.

His comment irritated me, but before I could respond, a man entered the room, looking concerned.

"I need to speak with him alone. Can you give us a moment?" the man requested.

I left the room and headed to the kitchen to prepare food for Marcus.