From Death To Wealth

The soft light of the early evening was stretching across Palm Street, a large residential area mostly occupied by the city’s wealthiest people.

Bruce, a tall young man, was walking home toward the apartment he shared with his sick father after finishing his shift at a small local store where he worked as a cleaner. He was barely making ends meet, helping his ailing father cover their living expenses and bills.

Just then, Bruce felt his phone buzz in his left breast pocket. When he picked it up, the caller’s number wasn’t familiar.

“Hello?” Bruce said to the unknown caller.

“I’m I onto Bruce? I need to confirm your identity and where you’re at right now.”

Bruce immediately frowned, thinking this had to be some kind of online scam. “Look, I don’t give that information to just anyone,” he replied dismissively.

The person on the other end insisted, “Listen to me, it’s really important…”

But Bruce shrugged it off, hung up, and kept walking, figuring it was nothing important.

However, when he reached the estate where he lived with his father, an uneasy feeling settled in his chest. This was accompanied by a sudden, familiar shout that reached Bruce’s ears, and he instantly recognized it.

“I want you out of my house, you deadbeat!” the landlord shouted.

Bruce quickly realized what was happening, it had to be because they were behind on rent. That was the only reason he could think of for this outburst as he walked faster, holding his phone tightly in his palm.

“A worthless man like you doesn’t deserve a place here! You and your son are nothing but miserable!” the landlord kept yelling.

Bruce was deeply hurt as he heard his father being insulted. He hurried, breaking into a run through the entrance of the estate.

The path was lined with small, old apartments, each with chipped paint and worn-down doors. Many families lived here, barely scraping by like his own.

As he finally reached their apartment, Bruce saw some bags being tossed out of their apartment. Clothes and other belongings were scattered down the steps and landed just in front of him.

“Get out of here. Now!” the landlord yelled again as more items were being thrown out. “I don’t want to see your face here again!”

“Please, Mr. Harold, just a little longer. We’re doing all we can to pay up,” his dad’s voice was shaking as he begged.

Hearing the angry voices, Bruce looked up and saw three estate vigilantes roughly dragging his father out of the building. He watched in shock as they reached the last step and shoved his dad forward. His dad stumbled, nearly falling down the stairs, but Bruce rushed over just in time to catch him.

“I got you, Papa!”

Collins, his father, teary-eyed and shaken, looked up at Bruce. “Bruce?! Get away from here now,” he cried, his voice filled with sorrow.

“I can’t leave you, Papa. Are you alright?” Bruce asked, helping him up before turning a fierce glare toward the vigilantes. “What’s wrong with you people? You could’ve seriously hurt him!”

“So what?” one of them sneered. “Who cares if a worthless thief gets hurt?”

Bruce’s stomach twisted with shock the moment he heard his father being called a thief. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

His dad, accused of stealing?

Bruce turned to see an older man in his fifties stepping out of the building with two younger men about his age, well-dressed and trailing behind him. Their expensive clothes and smug expressions made it clear these were the wealthy owners of the estate. This was Mr. Harold Richardson and his family.

“Mr. Harold!” Bruce called out gently, staring at the landlord. “How could you let these people treat my dad like this?”

“Your thieving dad,” Mr. Harold replied coolly, his face full of contempt. “You must be delusional if you think I’d let a man who stole from me stay here any longer.”

“That’s a lie,” Collins said, his voice shaking as he held back tears from his eyes. “I didn’t steal anything, and you know it. Where’s your evidence?”

“Close your dirty mouth, thief!” sneered one of the young men standing behind Mr. Harold. He was Vincent, Mr Harold’s first son.

With a smug grin on his face, Vincent went on to say... “My dad’s a fair man. He wouldn’t accuse you without a reason.”

“Absolutely,” added the other young man, a huge muscular figure who moved closer. “If he called you a thief, it’s because you are one.”

Bruce stepped forward with a fierce look on his face. “Vincent, Kyle, don’t you dare talk to my dad like that!”

“Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?” Vincent, and his cousin Kyle, who’d lived with them since he was young, both came down the steps, challenging Bruce.

Bruce clenched his fists, ready to defend himself and his father if anything happened. But suddenly, the vigilantes who had pushed Collins earlier grabbed Bruce by the arms, pinning him in place.

Kyle and Vincent took advantage of this, landing several slaps and punches freely all over his body.

Collins tried to rush over to help his son but was shoved back, helpless to stop it. By the time they were finished, Bruce’s face was bruised and bloody.

“That’s enough, Vin,” Mr. Harold commanded.

“Yes, Father,” Vincent muttered as the two young men stepped back leaving Bruce with a swollen, bruised face as they returned to Mr. Harold’s side.

Mr. Harold stared down at Bruce and Collins, his expression icy. “Now get these worthless thieves off my estate.” He ordered finger-pointing at the same time. “From now on, I have no tenants here by their name.”

The Vigilantes grabbed Bruce and his father and led them off the estate.

Moments later, the father and son found themselves outside the estate gates, which closed with a loud clang.

“Why is this happening to us?” Collins cried out, sinking to his knees, his hands covering his face.

Bruce knelt beside his father, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Papa, don’t worry. I’ll find us a new place to stay,” he said softly. “Everything will be alright.”

Bruce clenched his jaw, he was intending to do something crazy, just as his phone buzzed with an unexpected message from the same unknown caller.