Zero to Billionaire

Chapter 7

John was having trouble breathing. The smell of cheap beer and treachery permeated the dilapidated flat, casting a dark shadow. Sarah's comments replayed themselves in his head, a never-ending litany of charges and defences. He gazed at them, like a shattered marionette with its strings cut. 

"This is why you've been so cold to me all month?" With a rasp, he asked, the question falling out like a parched leaf in a windstorm. Sarah said nothing, her eyes darting from him like a housefly gone awry. Her lack of response revealed much and validated his darkest suspicions.

Encouraged by Sarah's contemptuous demeanour, Mark advanced, adding an additional layer of brutality to the already exposed injury. "Cold?" he mocked, a sardonic chuckle from his chest. "John, you looked like a solid block! You couldn't even find the energy to have a great evening with your partner, work or no job. My friend, you're as thrilling as a wet sock."

John's hands became tight, with his claws penetrating the delicate skin of his palms. The need to strike back, to react violently to the insults, was like a wildfire that was about to take him down. Still, something stopped him. Maybe it was the realisation that a fight wouldn't alter anything, or maybe it was just the sheer audacity of it all, Mark's gall to stand there so smugly. It wouldn't fix the broken parts of his world or take away the betrayal.

John let go of his fists and took a big, trembling breath. He let go silently, the breath rushing out of him. This was no place for him to remain, this lair of deception, the rubble of his own mistaken confidence. He pivoted, his gait heavy with a despondency that seemed like it might swallow him whole.

The city lights outside merged into a jumble of anguish. John shuffled forward, his legs dead and his head a jumble of conflicting feelings. His throat was itching to scream, to let out the primal roar of anguish and wrath, but nothing came out. It sounded muted and warped, like a scream stuck inside a glass jar.

As he arrived at his flat, he staggered through the door and fell upon the shabby couch. An oppressive mist of loneliness surrounded him. He yearned for unconsciousness, a fleeting reprieve from the excruciating agony that engulfed him. His eyes landed on the booze cabinet, like a lighthouse in the night. Maybe a few drinks might smooth away the jagged edges of his hopelessness.

He sprang up abruptly and grabbed a whisky bottle that was covered with dust. A sharp intrusion into his sorrow, a notification pingged on his phone as he unscrewed the cap. He curiously checked it, half-expecting a spam letter or some meaningless social media update. Rather, his breathing tightened. His bank had sent him an email, serving as a sobering reminder of his growing debt. The red-circled deadline taunted him, adding even more weight to the unbearable load he already bore.

The whisky bottle fell out of his hand and hit the ground with a harmless thud. The drink, which had only a minute before felt like such a sweet retreat, no longer had any attraction. He was driven over the brink by the combination of his mental distress and financial difficulties. Thick, oppressive despair loomed, ready to swallow him whole. 

The room closed up around him as he collapsed back onto the couch. The world seemed to become more and more grayscale, losing its vibrancy. What was the purpose? Why should they struggle any longer? The future opened out in front of him, a desolate, empty space devoid of hope.

John got up in a stupor, his motions robotic and slow. Attracted by the bright shine of a knife glistening on the counter, he strolled to the kitchen. The idea of suffering, of a harsh conclusion, included a perverted sense of tranquilly. Then he saw, coiled in a corner, a ragged rope that may have been another doorway to forgetfulness.

Then his attention was drawn to something else. A little vial with a transparent liquid inside was tucked in his pocket behind an unopened pack of gum and a rumpled receipt. He had bought it weeks before, when the idea of taking his own life seemed like a far-off, macabre dream. It seems like destiny had brought it to him now.

He gazed intently at the vial, its contents twinkling dully in the low light. With a lifeless and hollow voice, he said to himself, "What method suits a loser like me?" Overindulgence? dangling? chilly steel? The decision seemed insignificant, like a minor detail in his ambitious scheme to destroy himself.

However, as he grasped the bottle in his shaking palm, a little spark of rebellion against the darkness that threatened to consume him sprung to life within of him. The spark was so tiny and delicate that it was hardly invisible. Still, there it was, a small spark that the internal tempest inside him would not put out. 

With a deranged mental game of roulette, John gazed at the vial. Was this really the solution? Was that truly what he wanted, to be defeated and give in to the powers that had betrayed him? He felt sick to his stomach, not just from the poison but also from the desolation of his thought.

With a clatter that reverberated through the quiet, he threw the vial onto the counter. He felt a sudden shock as the gesture's finality tore through his hopelessness. Perhaps there was an other route. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had one more battle left in him.

His troubles didn't get lighter. He was still carrying a heavy load from the betrayal, the debt, and the loneliness. However, the glimmer of disobedience had expanded into a flash of resolve. He refused to concede defeat. He would not give in to the shadows.

Propelled by his renewed determination, John staggered over to his lavatory. With a jolt to his system, he sprayed cold water over his face. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed as he peered at his image in the glass, but suddenly they had a glimmer of defiance that hadn't been there before.

He refused to allow Sarah and Mark to feel good about breaking him. He refused to allow his money problems determine his value. John was his name, and he was a combatant. This was not the end; rather, it was a fresh start that would allow him to reconstruct his life, one brick at a time.

He determined that dealing with the debt the biggest danger at hand should be the first move. He reached for his laptop, the fan's humming a pleasant sound in the stifling quiet. The figures on the screen served as a clear reminder of his predicament when he entered into his bank account. Although intimidating, it was not insurmountable. His thoughts slowly began to formulate a plan as he studied debt consolidation programmes.

He would not sugarcoat the difficulties of what lay ahead. There would be ramen noodles for supper, restless nights, and an ongoing battle to survive. However, John had a feeling of agency and control over his own fate for the first time in hours. He might reduce the debt by making little payments at a time, but he wouldn't win the lotto or suddenly become wealthy over night.

He then got in touch with a buddy who had avoided becoming entangled in the situation involving Sarah and Mark. He released a flood of words that revealed his whole being the betrayal, the hopelessness, and the thoughts of suicide. He was surprised that his pal didn't pass judgement or provide meaningless platitudes. All he did was listen, acting as a calm compass amid John's maelstrom. 

Speaking about it and exposing the true feelings was a healing process. It served as a reminder that, despite Sarah and Mark's lack of concern, he wasn't alone and that other people did too.

It was a long night with no guarantee of what lay ahead. On the other hand, John felt a little flicker of optimism blossom in his breast as the first light of morning peaked through the window. It was a beginning and a motivation to keep going ahead, even if it wasn't a guarantee of a good