I never had a normal childhood. Most kids could depend on their parents, their families, for some semblance of stability, but not me. My father left before I was born, a ghost who never even bothered to show up for his own flesh and blood. And my mother, well, she did what she could, but she was sick—always sick. There were no gentle words of encouragement, no moments of laughter shared between us. No bedtime stories or playful teasing. It was just me and the silence.
I often wonder what it would've been like if I'd had a different life. If I had a father who loved me and a mother who wasn't fading away in front of my eyes. But life doesn't give us those kinds of choices. We just have to deal with what we're given, and I guess I've been trying to do that for as long as I can remember. But it's harder than it sounds when you're a kid, when the weight of the world feels like it's bearing down on you, and there's no one around to help you carry it.
My mom was a shadow of what she used to be. Her health faded with each passing year, leaving her unable to care for me the way a mother should. I never blamed her for it, though. How could I? She had her own battles to fight. I could see it in her eyes—her once bright, hopeful gaze now dimmed by constant pain, exhaustion, and the toll that her illness took on her body. There were moments when I would see glimpses of the woman she used to be, the one who used to laugh and hold me close. But those moments were rare, and they didn't last. Eventually, I stopped hoping they would.
I didn't have the luxury of crying about it. My world was small. The apartment smelled of old blankets and the bitter tang of disinfectant. The air was thick, unmoving, like the very walls were holding their breath. We barely had enough to get by—just enough to cover the bills and scrape together a few meals. There was no room for luxuries, no room for anything other than survival.
So, I survived.
And when the loneliness became unbearable, when the silence was too much to handle, I retreated into my art. Art was the one thing I could control, the one thing that made sense in a world that seemed so broken. The canvas didn't care about my past or my present. It didn't judge me. It was just there, waiting for me to make something out of nothing.
But even art, eventually, became a source of frustration.
I'd spend hours in my tiny room, with nothing but the hum of the fluorescent light overhead and the soft scratch of my brush against the canvas. It was my way of escaping everything—the weight of my mother's illness, the crushing silence of the apartment, the constant low-level hum of anxiety that never quite went away. At first, painting was an outlet, a way to release everything I was holding inside. But as time went on, I realized that it wasn't enough.
My work became mechanical, empty. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't find the spark I was looking for. I remember the first time I truly felt nothing in my work. I was fourteen, sitting in front of a blank canvas, brush in hand. I had the image in my head—my mother sitting in her favorite chair, frail and hunched over, her once-beautiful face now drawn with lines of pain. I wanted to capture her in all her complexity, to paint her as she truly was, to somehow make sense of the chaos that was my life.
But when I looked at the painting, it was like looking at a ghost. It had no soul. It was a portrait of her, yes, but it lacked any real feeling, any depth. The brushstrokes were neat, precise, but hollow. I couldn't bring her to life on the canvas the way I wanted to. No matter what I did, it never felt right. I tried to capture the pain in her eyes, the sadness that clung to her like a second skin, but I couldn't do it.
I tried to shake it off. I told myself it didn't matter, that it was just one painting. But that night, I realized something: I was stuck. My art had become a prison, and I didn't know how to break free.
The next day, I tried to push through. I painted another still life—just a bowl of fruit, something easy, something simple. But the fruit was flat. The colors didn't pop the way they should've. The painting felt lifeless. I kept repeating the same cycle over and over—paint, fail, paint, fail—until I felt like I was going crazy. I couldn't escape it.
I visited galleries, hoping that by studying the works of others, I could somehow unlock the secret to creating something that mattered. I spent hours standing in front of paintings, staring at them until my eyes burned, trying to decipher the magic behind them. But all I felt was an emptiness. Their works were magnificent, yes, but they didn't speak to me. They didn't show me how to create meaning, how to make something that mattered. I just didn't get it.
School didn't help either. I was that quiet kid, the one who didn't stand out. The one who always sat at the back of the classroom, hoping no one would notice me. But they did. The bullies did. The ones who would taunt me for being different, for being shy, for not fitting in. I tried to tell myself it didn't matter, that it was just part of life, but the truth was—it hurt. Every word, every shove, every laugh at my expense chipped away at me. Slowly, I started to build walls, enclosing myself in a world that was entirely my own.
Most kids got bedtime stories and birthday parties. I got hushed voices and half-empty pill bottles. Lucky me.
But even then, the loneliness was suffocating. No matter how much time I spent with my art, no matter how many hours I poured into my canvas, I couldn't escape the gnawing emptiness inside me.
My mother's condition worsened. The apartment felt smaller, the walls closing in on us. She couldn't even get out of bed some days, and I had to do everything—make meals, clean, pay the bills, and try to take care of her, even though I had no idea how to. I wasn't a nurse. I was a kid, trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. But there was no one else to help, so I just kept going.
And then, one night, something changed.
I had just finished my shift at the diner, my feet aching from standing for hours, the exhaustion weighing heavily on me. It was one of those nights where the world feels like it's spinning a little too fast, and you can't seem to catch up. The cold night air bit at my skin as I stepped outside, the streetlights casting long shadows across the empty streets. The city was quiet—too quiet.
As I walked down the familiar path toward my apartment, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The night seemed still, too still. It was like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I felt a pull—a compulsion to walk down a different path. A narrow alleyway I hadn't taken in months.
The flickering streetlight at the end of the alley barely illuminated the darkness, but something about it called to me. It felt like an invitation. The air smelled damp, like rain on pavement. The shadows twisted beneath the buzzing light, dark and restless. Something inside me told me to go there, and for once, I didn't question it.
I turned and stepped into the alley.
It was silent. No sounds of cars passing, no distant chatter from the streets ahead. Just the echo of my footsteps on the pavement, growing louder with each step I took. The alley seemed to stretch on forever, and the darkness pressed in on me from all sides. My heart began to race.
I didn't know why I was there, or what I was looking for, but I felt something. Something was waiting for me. Something that had been missing in my life for so long. I didn't understand it, but I couldn't ignore it.
I took another step, and then another, until I reached the end of the alley. The streetlight flickered again, casting a cold, ghostly glow on the ground.
And in that moment, I knew.
Something was waiting for me. And it was hungry