In Victor's Mind During the Corruption.
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"Ugh… Ahchoo! Why am I here?"
I blinked, my vision blurry as I took in my surroundings.
Then, I saw him my younger self.
He was small, frail, and dirty, his tattered clothes clinging to his malnourished frame. He sat huddled in the shadows of a narrow alley, shivering despite the suffocating summer heat.
The stench of stale urine and rotting garbage filled the air, mingling with the acrid scent of unwashed bodies.
I watched him-watched myself ,He Was too weak to stand, too exhausted to cry.
He clutched a handful of crumpled coins, his meager earnings for the day, stolen from unsuspecting passersby.
It wasn't enough to silence the hunger gnawing at his stomach, a hunger that had been his constant companion for two days straight.
He Look Like He hated His life.
The slums were a cruel and unforgiving place, a festering wound on the city's underbelly. The filth, the fear, the endless hunger it all weighed on him, crushing his spirit bit by bit.
But it was all he knew.
His so called parents had made it clear: earn your keep or starve.
The boy thought of them now, holed up in their dingy apartment, likely passed out from drink.
His father a hulking brute with fists like iron. His mother—a bitter woman with eyes devoid of warmth.
They weren't parents.
They were jailers, their love a twisted mockery, doled out in meager scraps between beatings and curses.
Victor squeezed his eyes shut. Even now, ten years later, he could still feel the sting of the belt against his back, the humiliation burning hotter than the pain.
"Worthless brat," his father would snarl, breath reeking of cheap canned beer.
"Can't even earn enough to feed yourself."
His mother would watch in silence, her expression void of sympathy.
And sometimes, she would join in.
"You're just like your father," she'd hiss, striking him with surprising strength despite her frail frame.
"A lazy, good-for-nothing parasite."
She said it every day. Even though he was the only one who worked.
Victor had hated them. Hated them with a passion so fierce it burned away every ounce of warmth in his heart.
But what could he do?
He was just a kid alone in a city Of slum that didn't care whether he lived or died.
He sighed, the breath hitching in his throat.
He had to go back.
There was nowhere else to go.
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Before he returned to the tenement, I stopped by a pile of overflowing bins.
Flies buzzed lazily around My head, drawn to the fetid stench of decay. The smell was familiar so much so that he barely noticed it anymore.
Tucked behind those bins lay a torn, bloodstained backpack.
Inside was a single academic book.
It was old, worn, and covered in dried blood a grim reminder of its previous owner.
I had seen the scholar before.
An old man who had lived on the outskirts of the slums, a relic of a world that had long abandoned him.
He had been dragged from his home by thugs, his body later dumped among the refuse.
Nobody cared.
Nobody asked questions.
But I had taken the book From His dead Body.
It was his first act of rebellion.
His father hated education.
He saw knowledge as a fool's pursuit, something only the privileged could afford.
But Victor?
Victor craved it.
Even with nothing but discarded milk cartons for paper and a makeshift pen of sharpened wood, he taught himself.
He studied in secret, reading by candlelight He stole , when his parents lay in drunken.
He didn't know why.
Maybe he was desperate to understand the world. Maybe he just refused to accept the fate others had chosen for him.
Either way, the fire inside him refused to die.
He refused to die In This Hell.
Victor climbed the crumbling staircase to his apartment.
The building was dark and lifeless, its windows like vacant eyes.
As he reached the door, he hesitated.
Inside, his parents were talking.
I pressed his ear against the cold metal, listening.
"We could get a good price for him," his father muttered.
My breath caught in My throat.
"Strong lad. He'll fetch a decent sum."
Silence.
Then his mother laughed.
Not the laugh of a mother reminiscing about her child's first steps. Not the laugh of a parent who adored their son.
No.
It was cruel.
It was Empty.
It Was Amused.
They were going to sell him.
My lips curled into a bitter smile.
"Hah… Let's see who sells who."
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Ten minutes later, when the house fell silent, Victor stepped inside.
"FINALLY, YOU'RE HERE. HOW MUCH DID YOU GET?"
His father's voice was already slurred.
I wordlessly handed over the coins.
His father scowled.
"Only this much?"
The belt came down.
'Over.
And over
AND OVER.
AND OVER AGIAN!!.
Ten minutes of hell, Like EVERY SINGLE DAMM DAY In My Life.'
His mother watched, cold and detached.
"Useless, as always," she muttered.
Finally, his father yawned, stretching.
"I'm tired of beating you, I'm going to bed."
He gave Me one last kick before stumbling off.
His mother followed without a second glance.
I watched as they fell into their nightly routine drunken, wrestling each other, lost in their own twisted games.
And I lay there.
Still.
Silent.
Waiting.
Counting their breaths.
Until, at last they fell asleep.
Midnight came quickly .
I rose Slowly Deliberate.
I reached beneath the loose floorboard and retrieved the rusted kitchen knife hidden there.
The blade was dull.
But the tip was sharp.
I slowly moved like a shadow, silent and unseen.
Slowly approching My Father without a sound.
My father was first.
I raised the knife , As High As I can.
And with all the strength I could muster I drove it into the His neck.
The flesh split open.
Blood gushed, warm and sticky.
My father's eyes snapped open in shock, but he could only gurgle, as His mouth was unable to scream.
I yanked the blade free.
A sickening squelch of Blood Flow Out.
Then he turned to My mother.
She stirred, but it was too late.
The knife plunged into her throat.
No screams.
Just blood, Blood Flow all Over His Hand.
and Just silence.
I stood there, staring at the bodies.
My hands trembled not from fear, nor regret.
Just adrenaline, The adrenaline Of Killing My pare- No My oppressor.
The constant fear, the beatings, the humiliation it's over.
The two people who were supposed to protect Me, Be My Hope, My supporter but instead They became My tormentors.
The torment was over.
And yet as My gazed at the carnage, I felt… nothing.
No satisfaction.
No relief.
Only emptiness.
Because in the end…
Vengeance did not set Me free From The Torment, As It only Left Me felt empty.
It only left behind a void one that would never be filled till This Day.
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