In the heart of New York City, where dreams soar and despair festers, A Happy Death tells the haunting story of Dez—a man who once dared to dream but was ground down by a world that values profit over people. Homeless, invisible, and discarded, Dez drifts through the city’s unforgiving streets, a casualty of systemic indifference.

Through raw, unflinching prose, A Happy Death invites readers into Dez’s fragmented world, where every corner hides a story, every shadow whispers a truth, and every breath is a fight against the inevitable. The novel explores themes of alienation, resilience, and the quiet humanity that can exist even in life’s darkest moments.

With the existential weight of Franz Kafka and the gritty realism of Charles Bukowski, A Happy Death is a searing meditation on the people we walk past, the lives we ignore, and the systems that fail us all. It’s not just Dez’s story—it’s a story about the cracks in society where lives are lived and lost, unnoticed and unremembered.

This is not a tale of redemption. It is a wake-up call, a raw and poignant reflection on what it means to exist in a world that pretends to care. In the end, Dez’s life might slip away unnoticed—but his story will not.

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In a city that never stops to notice, one man’s quiet descent into invisibility becomes a haunting meditation on the lives we ignore, the systems that fail us, and the humanity we choose to forget.

 

Sample

Chapter 1. Introduction to Dez

The City in the Dark 

The city never sleeps, but it never gives a damn, either.

I lie here, pressed against the rough stone of this doorway, trying to keep some part of me warm. The rain is relentless, falling in sheets that sting when they hit my skin. But what’s pain anymore? My body’s gone numb. It’s not the rain that keeps me awake. It’s the noise. Always the noise.

Car tires screech. The hum of distant conversations. The clatter of a thousand lives that don’t know I’m here, crumpled against the building like a discarded cigarette. I’m invisible, yet here I am, alive enough to feel every wet breath, every gust of wind that cuts through the thin fabric of my jacket. People walk by, wrapped in their own little worlds, heads down, eyes glazed over, walking past me as if I don’t exist. I’m nothing.

Sometimes I think that’s the point of New York. To become part of its backdrop. The city devours you, chews you up and spits you out like gum on the sidewalk, but it never stops moving. I’m nothing but a blotch of gray against the mosaic of human suffering. They step over me without blinking. And I don’t even blame them. Hell, I can’t blame anyone anymore.

What’s the point of blaming? It’s all just part of the machinery. We’re all cogs in it, grinding away until we snap.

It’s been years since I first ended up here, years since the world made any sense. I was never a kid who dreamt of a life on the street. Hell, who dreams of this? You don’t hear about the ones who fall off, the ones who disappear into the cracks of society, swallowed whole. It doesn’t make for good TV. But here I am.

You only hear about the ones who make it. The ones who climb to the top, look down, and forget about us. The ones who leave people like me to rot in the shadows. And yet, here I am.

I pull my knees tighter into my chest, hoping to keep the cold from gnawing through the little warmth left in my bones. I should sleep, but my mind is a furnace, too hot, too busy. The past spins like a record stuck on repeat—faces, names, all of it blurring together in the dark. Ana’s face, especially. I haven’t seen her in years, but her face is still so damn clear. She used to smile like the sun, and I used to think maybe, just maybe, that could save me.

But who was I fooling? I couldn’t even save myself. The drinking, the endless numbness—it kept me from feeling the truth: that I wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not for anyone. The only thing I’ve been good at is survival. But survival’s a shitty goal. Survival’s a joke. It’s not a life. It’s just a holding pattern, a circling of the drain.

The rain turns into something softer, almost peaceful. But peace is also a joke. I haven’t felt peace since before I lost everything. Back when I still had hope. Before I was nothing. Back when I thought I was worthy of saving.

I watch a couple pass by, laughing. They’re young. They don’t see me, don’t even register that I exist. Their joy stings, sharp and bitter. I wonder what it’s like to not be invisible. To have someone care. To have something to fight for.

The man laughs louder, and the woman punches him playfully in the arm. I can’t help it. I hate them for it. That kind of happiness doesn’t exist for people like me. It’s a different world. A world I’m no longer a part of, if I ever was.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shop window across the street. My face is haggard, skin pulled tight over bones. My eyes are red and tired, but not from sleep. From something deeper. It’s like I can see all the years of hard living etched into my face. I don’t recognize the person staring back at me, but I’ve been staring at him for so long that I can’t tell where I end and he begins. Maybe we’re the same. Maybe we’ve always been the same.

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m just here. Surviving. But is that even enough? Is that what it means to live?

A car honks, a siren wails, someone shouts in the distance. Life keeps on moving. The city keeps on spinning. But I’m stuck. Stuck in this same moment, every moment. The rain keeps falling, cold as the world that forgot me.

The world doesn’t care about people like me. The city doesn’t care. Hell, I barely care about myself anymore. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe caring only drags you deeper into this cesspool of humanity. Maybe it’s better to just let go. To stop giving a damn. To just be numb to it all.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her.

She’s standing by the corner, holding a thermos. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge me at first. But then, she does. She looks right at me, and for a second, the whole world falls silent. She’s young, mid-twenties maybe, wearing a scarf around her neck like she’s trying to hide from the cold. I don’t know what it is about her—maybe it’s the way her eyes aren’t glazed over, like most people’s are. She looks at me like I matter.

I can’t take it. My heart gives a quick, erratic beat, and I want to turn away. I want to pretend I didn’t see her. But I don’t.

“Coffee?” she asks, her voice soft, almost hesitant. Her hand is outstretched, offering warmth. Offering something I’ve long forgotten how to accept.

I should say no. I should turn her away. I don’t deserve her kindness.

But instead, I find myself reaching for it. The warmth. I feel the weight of the thermos in my hands, the steam rising. I drink. I don’t think about it. I just drink.

We don’t speak. She watches me for a moment, and then without a word, she turns and walks away, disappearing into the night.

The coffee tastes bitter, but it’s the sweetest thing I’ve had in a long time.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel something—something that isn’t numbness. Something like hope, or maybe just the smallest crack of human connection. I hate myself for needing it, but I take it anyway. And then, I’m left alone again.

But maybe that’s the point. The city doesn’t care. But once in a while, someone does.

 

Survival at All Costs

I can’t escape the sound of the city, no matter how far I shove my head into the corner of this rotting cardboard. It’s the noise of a hundred thousand people fighting to survive, and yet nobody’s winning. It just keeps moving, a machine with too many gears. Every honk, every siren, every footstep echoes down my spine like a threat. I used to sleep through it, block it out with a bottle or a needle. But now it’s just a soundtrack to my misery, a relentless reminder that I’m still here.

The city doesn’t care. It never did. It was always too big for me, too loud, too bright. When I was younger, I thought I could make something of myself here, like the stories said. You know, the ones about making it big, escaping the cage. But here I am, thirty, huddled beneath this awning, the rain turning the sidewalk into a slick mess. Nothing but a ghost. Nothing but a shadow of a person.

Survival’s all I’ve got left. Survival and shame.

I used to think I could break free. Thought maybe if I just found the right angle, the right connection, something would change. But survival’s the only thing I can trust now. There’s no love left in me, no dreams. Just scraping by, day to day, hour to hour, in the same damn city I thought would save me. Only difference now is I know better.

It’s funny how people think the streets are all about drugs and alcohol. That’s just the beginning. After that, you start learning how to survive, how to avoid the cracks in the pavement that’ll swallow you whole. How to make the city your enemy, but also your ally. People are just ghosts here, and they can’t see you. They don’t want to. They never did. You become a part of the background noise.

I keep my head low, my eyes on the ground. I’ve learned not to make eye contact. Eye contact is an invitation for trouble. Some asshole with a badge sees you in their line of sight and thinks they’ve got the right to break your back. So you keep your head low, and when you do look up, you make sure you’re not seen. Just like everyone else in this godforsaken place.

Sometimes, I can feel myself turning into them—the ones I hated when I first came here. The ones who’ve given up, lost all hope. I can see it in their eyes when I pass them on the corner. The glassy look, the permanent cloud of indifference. Like they’ve been left outside for too long, soaking up the filth of this city until it’s all they are. I don’t want to become that. But I’m getting close. Too close.

I haven’t seen Frank in days. He’s probably holed up somewhere, trying to ride out another bender or hiding from the cops. I don’t know why I even care anymore. Frank’s the guy who told me all the ugly truths about street life. Told me about the scams, the thieves, the animals who’ll cut you open for a dime. He’s the one who taught me how to beg, how to take what I need, no matter who I have to hurt in the process.

I don’t know if I can live like that anymore. Not that I’ve got anything to live for, but I still remember what it felt like before. Before I lost everything. Before the booze became my only friend. Before the streets carved a hole in me so deep, I didn’t know how to fill it anymore.

The thing about survival is that it makes you numb. Numb to the cold, to the hunger, to the pain. It’s the slow death of your humanity, one scrape at a time. It’s like you’re walking through a fog, and you can’t remember what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. All you know is that you’re still breathing, still moving, and that’s supposed to be enough. But it isn’t. Not for me, anyway.

Marie still comes by sometimes, brings me a cup of coffee or a sandwich. She keeps telling me there’s hope, that there’s a way out. I just laugh. She’s trying to fix me, but you can’t fix something that’s already broken. I told her once that the world was broken, and I was just its product. She didn’t like that. She tried to tell me that I had potential, that I could make something of myself if I wanted to. But that’s the problem with people like her—they never see the bottom. They see the idea of you, not the reality.

I used to care what people thought. I used to dream of getting out, of finding a way out of this mess. But now I’m just here, in this corner of New York, where nothing matters. Nothing but survival. I don’t even remember the last time I felt anything other than cold or hunger. And when I do feel something, it’s just a reminder that I can’t have it.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll last. Every day’s a countdown. I’m just waiting for the end, like everyone else. I don’t know if I’ll die out here or if I’ll just fade away slowly, like the rest of the ghosts on the street. Maybe the rain will drown me, or maybe I’ll just stop breathing one night, and nobody will notice. I don’t care either way. I don’t even know if I’m still alive, really. I just know that I’m here. Still here. Just trying to survive.

Survival at all costs. But at what cost?

 

The Concept of Death

I wake to the sound of rain tapping against the plastic sheets of my makeshift shelter, that sick, monotonous drumming that echoes down my spine and rattles my bones. It’s not the rain that’s so damned bad, it’s the cold. It doesn’t just freeze you—it fills you up with that bitter emptiness, like the whole city is nothing more than a hollow shell that I’ve been shoved into. The city doesn’t care, doesn’t even notice. There’s a part of me that wishes it would just collapse, let the whole fucking thing fall apart. It’s like the best part of me is already gone, already disappeared into the cracks, the shadows of this wasteland.

But I’m still here, aren’t I? Alive. Barely. I twist my body into a better position, trying to find some warmth in this dirty corner. The sound of the traffic hums in the background, a low, ugly growl that never stops. Like the city is some kind of machine grinding people down, chewing them up, spitting them out. The folks on the other side, the ones who don’t even see us anymore, they’re just cogs in the wheel, too—pushing, pulling, trying to get to the top. The thing is, most of them don’t even know it’s a fucking rat race. They just keep running, don’t they? For what? Some apartment in a building where the walls are so thin you can hear the guy above you jerking off? A shitty job that doesn’t even pay for half your rent? It’s all the same.

The rain’s heavier now, and I close my eyes. I can’t shake the thought of death. Not like it’s some distant, abstract thing anymore, something to be feared or even longed for. No, it’s right here with me—breathing the same stale air, filling my lungs with every breath. There’s no mystery to it. It’s not some grand event. It’s just another step in the process. I think of it like peeling an onion. You shed one layer, and you get to the next, until it’s all gone, and you’re left with nothing but skin and emptiness. It’s peaceful. There’s peace in it.

Maybe that’s the joke. You spend your whole life trying to escape it, fighting to stay alive, to survive, but all the while, you’re walking toward it. You’re already halfway there, and you don’t even know it. And me? Well, I’ve known it for a long time. There was a time I thought I could fight it—fix myself, get clean, go back to Ana, back to a real life. But what’s left of that? What’s left of anything?

I think of the people I used to know. The ones who made promises, who tried to save me, like Marie. She was the first one who ever looked at me and saw something more than just the dirt on my face, the stench of piss on my clothes. She was full of light, like the sunlight on a spring morning when everything feels like it might be okay, if only for a moment. She had this idea, you know? That there was something worth saving in me. She’d bring me food, try to get me to come with her to one of those shelters where they hand you a shitty bed and a blanket that smells like mold. I’d listen to her and smile, but I couldn’t get out of my head. The weight of the city on my shoulders, the bitterness in my chest. I didn’t even know if I wanted to survive anymore.

Survival, that’s the thing. It’s all you can do when you’ve got nothing. You fight, scrape, beg, steal, but in the end, all you’ve really got is the desperate, gnawing need to breathe. And that’s it. That’s the whole game. I see the people on the streets, just like me, living day to day like it’s some kind of contest to see who can last the longest. We’re all fighting for something, but we’re not sure what. There’s no prize. No finish line. Just the slow, aching march of time. And the city keeps moving—fast, indifferent, like a beast that’s never going to stop hunting, never going to let you go. You’re just another mouth to feed, another body to step over.

I can feel the ache in my bones, the weight of it all. The longer I stay, the more I feel like I’m just fading into the background, becoming a shadow of myself. I’m a statistic now, part of the noise. But that’s what it is, isn’t it? All of us out here, in the gutters and alleys, we’re just statistics in a city that only cares about the numbers. How many are out there? How many have made it to the shelters? How many have died? They don’t care about our names, our stories. They don’t care about the fact that once, we were someone. Maybe not much, but we mattered.

So why keep fighting? I could die tomorrow, or I could die next year. What’s the difference? It’s all the same, isn’t it? The end is just the end. And I’m not scared anymore. The city can do what it wants. It can chew me up, spit me out, leave me lying in a gutter to rot. I don’t care. Maybe it’ll be easier than all this. Maybe death’s the only thing that can free me from the constant grind.

There was a time when I thought I was going to fix it. That I was going to climb out of this shit hole, maybe meet someone like Ana again, clean myself up, get a job. But that was a joke. You can’t climb out of a hole if you don’t have a ladder, and you sure as hell can’t pull yourself up by your bootstraps when your boots have been stolen and you’re too damn tired to even move. No, that’s not the way out.

And what about the rest of the world? The ones who live on the other side? The ones who never see us, who just walk by, pretending we don’t exist? They’ve got their lives, their dreams, their bullshit. They’ve got their shiny cars and their office jobs, and they don’t see the rest of us, the ones who’ve slipped through the cracks. They don’t want to. It’s easier to pretend we don’t exist, to act like we’re not here, like we’re nothing but background noise. But we’re here. And one day, one of them might realize just how close they are to being us.

But not today.

Today, I’ll just wait for the rain to stop. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just lie here, in the dark, and wait for the peace to come. Because, in the end, it’s all the same. Just another layer peeled away, another day gone.