The universe didn't care. I was just a speck among specks. A tiny bit of utter insignificance in the grand scheme of things.
I've always rebelled. My entire life has been one giant revolution. When I was young, I'd climb out my window late at night, when I could hear soft sighs escaping up from my parents' bedroom. I'd steal away, sliding down that always-ready rope, until I reached the earth below; it would silently squish beneath my bare toes, and I'd smile. I'd look up at the sky, at those innumerable stars, and trace patterns through them in my head. I'd spell out my name, connecting each twinkling dot to the next. But then, in the blink of an eye, it all disappeared into shimmering nonsense, stars slowly melting into those around them, and merging into one overwhelming blanket of light. And I'd scream. I'd scream at the sky, at the stars, at nothing at all. And I kept screaming.
And kept screaming. Things stayed pretty much the same as I got older. A never-ending chess game between the universe and me. Sometimes I'd grab a piece or two, but I could never gain the upper hand: a perpetual stale mate. But I refused to give up.
And one day, it hit me. It all seemed so perfect. And as I leaned over the body and gently closed the bloodstained eyelids, I finally knew.
I might not be important. The universe still doesn't care. But for that one moment, that one frightening, terrifying, entirely electrifying moment, I was someone in this world, and that was enough. I knew I'd made the right choice.