I opened my eyes. The darkness scattered for a moment, but another darkness took its place—red, suffocating, alive. The voices in my head had gone silent. That was the first thing I noticed. The vile giggles, the mocking whispers, the chaos clashing with my own being… they were gone. The silence was as light as a greeting, as heavy as a curse. I looked around. The oppressive lights of the set, the cold stare of the cameras, the weight of the lines—all vanished. Instead, I was in a garden of flowers. Red blossoms, like drops of blood, stretched to the horizon. I wore strange clothing: silk or a shroud, I couldn't tell. It was thin, chilling me to the bone.
Where was I? The last thing… yes, The Criminal. I was shooting my final scene. Jack Timberson was going to die, and I was leaving the show. But why? I thought, and in that moment, a nail drove into my brain. Sharp, vile pain. I collapsed, clutching my head, writhing. "AHHHH!" I screamed, curses spilling from my lips, but it was futile. The past stood before me like a thick cinema screen; iron chains wrapped around my mind. The more I tried to remember, the worse the pain grew, slicing through my brain like a knife. I stopped. Digging into the past was like dying.
My mother came to mind. Her voice, soft but accusing. "Don't stay out late, Michael." But I had stayed out late. I didn't even go to her funeral. I was on set, memorizing lines, waiting for the lights. I had abandoned her. My eyes burned, but no tears came. Slowly, I stood, looking around. The red flowers swayed like a sea. I reached out, touching one. The moment my fingers brushed its petals, the flower wilted. It dried up, turning to dust. In my hand, gray crumbs remained. I was decay itself. As I touched them, the flowers died. My presence was poison.
I started walking. With every step, the roses withered, following me like a curse. The world was like a lucid dream—real, but wrong. Time flowed like a swamp; each step was both an eternity and a moment. I crested a hill. The flower garden swallowed the horizon. My eyes couldn't see beyond the red. But there, in the center, stood a tree. Yellow, glowing, like a hologram. Was it real? Or a trick of my mind? I walked toward it slowly. The distance stretched, yet shrank. Hours passed, or maybe seconds. I didn't know.
I crossed one final ridge. At the base of the tree, a woman sat. Porcelain-white, almost translucent. A man in his twenties lay in her lap, suckling at her breast. "Mother," he said, his voice fragile like a child's. The woman smiled, humming a strange lullaby—words incomprehensible, but they seeped into my bones. Unease stirred within me. I wanted to leave. The woman felt wrong. But my feet pulled me toward her.
I drew closer. The man suddenly stopped suckling. The woman's breasts, bare, gleamed like porcelain. But I didn't notice. My eyes locked onto the man. I wanted to reach for him. Why? I didn't know. The urge itched in my mind like a toothache. I stepped forward, and in that moment, the man screamed. I couldn't see his face, but his voice pierced my soul. "DON'T COME! DON'T COME! DON'T COOOOME!" The scream shook the flowers, darkened the sky. The woman, as if disturbed, began stroking his hair. Her smile was a mask.
Rage surged within me. No, that woman wasn't his mother. I knew it, felt it in my bones. But the words caught in my throat. I approached the man, and the roses withered in my wake. The flowers turned to dust, as if my presence poisoned the world. The woman put the man to sleep, then slowly stood. She came toward me. Her eyes were a bottomless abyss. My knees betrayed me. I knelt before her, like a slave.
She stroked my hair. Her hand was cold, but for a moment, familiar. "NO!" I screamed, my voice trembling. "YOU'RE NOT MY MOTHER!" Her hand paused for a second. In that moment, the world changed. The flowers wilted in a wave. The red garden turned into a gray desert. My legs went numb. They began to decay, my flesh mixing with dust. "NO!" I shouted, but my voice broke in my throat. My body was in the grip of anesthesia—slowly, a vile numbness crept upward from my legs. The decay reached my face. As my eyes sank into darkness, a single whisper escaped my lips:
"She's not your mother…"
Somewhere Unknown...
The darkness parted for a moment. I opened my eyes—I was a baby. My tiny hands grasped at the air; my lungs burned with my first breath. But the world was unfamiliar. A hospital room, but wrong. The ceiling was cracked, collapsing; blue light streamed in like a hymn. My mother and father stood over me, their eyes gleaming as if beholding life's holiest treasure. But their hands didn't touch me. They were the hands of a statue. A cold, stone angel held me tightly in its arms. Its wings loomed over me like shadows; its face was neither kind nor cruel—just empty.
The room was filled with people. In gray robes, they fell to their knees in unison. Their voices rose like a wave, words carving into my bones:
Fiat voluntas tua, etiam si ardeo.
Respira per me, Creator.
Omnia tua sunt, etiam dolor.
In lumine tuo, morior.
Redde me pulveri tuo.
Ex nihilo, et in te revertar.
The prayer wasn't a song—it was a chain, a curse. My eyes, blurry like a baby's, but my mind was something else. I watched the people. My face must have frozen in a strange expression. As if I wasn't a baby. As if… I was someone else. In their eyes, a fire of fear and worship burned. The angel statue gripped me tighter. The blue light pierced my skin. And I watched, silently, everything.
Six Years Later, Valeria Capital
Valeria Kapitali was a town that smelled of dust and stone. The sky was always gray, as if God had forgotten the world. My blond hair fluttered in the wind; my eyelashes glinted in the sun's faint light. In my hand, a bucket, carrying water from the spring. My shoulders protested with every step. "AHH," I thought, my voice echoing in my mind. "This damn job is going to break my bones." I'd never gotten used to this weight since the day I was born. The church told my family, "Don't treat him differently." Even when people begged to help, the bucket was my burden. Why? I didn't know. Thinking about the past was like a knife.
Whenever I tried to recall the old days, my eyes throbbed as if they'd explode. My veins strained, ready to tear; my breath caught in my throat. The pain gnawed at me like a beast. A while ago, I'd stopped thinking. I was afraid. Who wouldn't be? Pain was everyone's master.
I reached our house. Valeria had just gotten a water system, but the pipes were a curse. The water either stopped or flowed like mud. People used it after filtering. Every Thursday, the Holy Mother Church distributed supplies and water. "Gratias tibi ago, Deus misericors," I muttered under my breath. Thanks be to the Holy Mother.
I left the bucket at the entrance. In the square, a strange crowd had gathered. Curiosity tickled me. I ran over. People parted as if they knew me. Some averted their eyes; others whispered. I reached the center. And in that moment, the world stopped.
A woman was impaled on a long pole. The stake entered her back and exited her stomach. Blood mixed with the dust. Her body still twitched—she hadn't been dead long. Her face was unrecognizable, but her eyes were still open. Empty, yet somehow alive. My heart pounded in my chest. To a child beside me, I whispered, "Why?" My voice trembled.
The child looked at me calmly. "Gratias tibi ago, Deus misericors, brother," he said. "This heretic strayed from the Church's teachings. She tried to lead people astray." He pressed a stone into my hand. "Throw it," he said, his voice cold, but his eyes expectant.
The stone was heavy in my palm. The crowd turned to me at once. Their eyes were like needles. I didn't look at the woman. I threw the stone aside on purpose. The earth swallowed it. The child frowned. He handed me another stone. "THROW!" he shouted, angry this time. My hands began to tremble. My eyes blurred. I didn't want to throw it. The woman was already dead. But the crowd breathed like a beast. Just then, a hand gripped my shoulder hard.
"THROW," a voice said. It was my father. His voice was a command, a chain. My eyes flicked to the woman. I threw the stone. I didn't know where it landed. But the crowd fell silent. Their focus shifted from me. As my father dragged me through Valeria Kapitali's dusty streets toward home, his hand was like a vise on my arm. His fingers dug into my flesh; with every step, my bones ached. The crowd's eyes stabbed into my back, but my father's rage was heavier than all of them. He flung the door open, shoved me inside, and slammed the wooden door shut with a thunderclap. The house fell silent as a grave. Only my father's ragged breathing cut through the air.
He threw me against the wall. My back hit the wood; my breath caught in my chest. His face was a storm, darkened. His eyes were neither human nor fatherly—like an executioner's. "I'M SICK AND TIRED OF YOU AND YOUR PATHETIC PITY!" he roared. His voice shook the house's planks, crushed my soul. Hatred coiled inside me like a snake. Because of you, I thought, but the words stuck in my throat.
SLAP! The first blow landed on my cheek like a flame. A sharp, resounding crack echoed through the wooden house. My face burned, my vision darkened. My mother watched from the doorway's crack. Her eyes held fear of defying my father, but also helplessness. That look fueled my hatred. Why are you just standing there? I wanted to scream. Why aren't you saving me? But my mother, like a shadow, only watched. In that moment, I hated her too. My father was a beast spewing his rage, but my mother's silence was viler.
"AFTER EVERYTHING I'VE DONE, YOU DARE LOOK AT ME WITH DEFIANCE?" he shouted. My eyes locked onto his—my anger outweighed my fear. But that only enraged him more. SLAP! The second blow hit my jaw; my head whipped to the side. SLAP! The third burned my ear; a hum settled in my mind. SLAP! The fourth split my lip; blood trickled down my chin, warm and vile. Each strike shattered not my body, but my soul. My hatred grew with every slap. For my father, his cruel hands, his disgusting breath. For my mother, her cowardly eyes, her silent betrayal. I hate you both, I thought, but my voice was a mere whisper. "Stop," I said, weak, broken. "Don't." But it was futile. My father, like a storm, didn't stop.
I collapsed, my knees hitting the wood. My body trembled, not from fear—from rage. My eyes, blurry, flicked to my mother. She was still there, in the doorway, a ghost. Why are you still watching? My hatred spread to her, like poison. My father kept striking. SLAP! My shoulder. SLAP! My chest. Each blow drove a nail into my ties to my family. I'll never forgive you. My mind drifted for a moment—red flowers, wilting roses, a tree. But reality returned with my father's fist. SLAP! My face burned like a volcano.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes—time was a swamp here. Finally, my father stopped. His breathing, ragged, filled the room. He took a step back, then another. Suddenly, he collapsed, his knees hitting the wood. He covered his face with his hands and began to sob. "PLEASE FORGIVE ME!" he cried, his voice fragile, pathetic, like a child's. His tears dripped onto the wood, but they meant nothing to me. In that moment, he seemed to realize something—maybe his guilt, maybe his vileness. But it was too late. His tears couldn't wash away my blood.
I stood slowly. My body groaned with every movement, but a fire burned inside me. Hatred. I didn't look at my father. Or my mother. She took a step toward me "
to embrace me, her hands trembling. But I raised my hand, pushing her away sharply. "Don't touch me," I whispered, my voice cold, alien. I climbed the stairs, each step breaking a chain. I reached my room. Closed the door. Darkness enveloped me. I collapsed onto the bed, my face still burning, my blood still seeping.