After the fire, after the screams, after the sky cracked open and swallowed everything he loved —the boy wandered the streets.
Alone.Silent.Half-alive.
He was six years old.
The villagers pretended not to see him at first.Pretended he was just another shadow blown by the wind.
But children —Children are cruel in ways even adults cannot match.
It started with whispers:
"There he is.""The demon spawn.""Let's have some fun."
They were older.Bigger.Their smiles were wide and friendly — too friendly.
One morning, as the boy scavenged rotten bread from the mud, a group of them approached.
A tall boy with ginger hair knelt down and offered him a piece of fresh fruit.
A real fruit.Clean.Untouched.
"Here," the older boy said kindly, smiling so wide it hurt to look at."You must be hungry."
The boy, trembling, reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the fruit — a boot slammed into his ribs.
He gasped, folded over, the air ripped from his lungs.
Laughter exploded around him.
Another kick — harder, crueler — sent him sprawling into the mud.
They circled him like vultures.Mocking.
"Look at the monster eat dirt!""Maybe he'll grow a tail next!"
One girl, no older than ten, knelt beside him and wiped fake tears from her eyes.
"Poor little demon," she sobbed mockingly."Don't cry now! Here, have a hug!"
She wrapped her arms around him — a tight, false embrace.The boy, desperate for warmth, leaned into it.
And felt a sudden, sharp pain in his side.
He screamed.
The girl pulled back, giggling, holding a small knife slick with blood.
The boy clutched his side, gasping.Blood seeped between his fingers.
Still, they jeered.
"You're cursed, remember?""Cursed things don't die easily."
They dragged him to his feet, forced him to stumble after them.
Every day after that, it was the same.
☠ Some mornings they greeted him like old friends, laughing and clapping him on the back — only to push him face-first into thorns hidden in the tall grass.
☠ Sometimes they pretended to share food, only to sprinkle shards of broken glass inside the bread.
☠ Once, they tied him to a fence post and took turns throwing stones at his head.
Each hit blurred his vision.Each impact turned the world red.
There were times he fainted from the pain.Collapsed like a ragdoll in the dirt.
They laughed even harder then.
One older boy leaned down, poked his unconscious body with a stick, and said,
"Maybe we broke it.Should we bury it?"
Another answered,
"Nah. Let the rats have him."
The boy learned not to trust smiles.Learned that a hand reaching out could just as easily strike as save.
The world taught him — again and again — that kindness was a mask.That laughter was a weapon.
Some nights, when the bruises throbbed and his blood soaked into the cold ground, he remembered his mother's voice.
"Grow stronger."
He clenched his fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands.
"Be brave."
He bit down on his cries until they tasted like iron.
"Break the chains."
He burned those words into his bones.
And yet, deep inside him, a terrible seed sprouted:
Not hope.Not hatred.
Something worse.
A hollow place.
A place that swallowed every pain, every betrayal, every broken promise.
And from that hollow, something monstrous was slowly, silently being born.
Something that, one day, would make the world itself tremble.