He was born into a life of pain, raised in a small, dirt-poor village under the iron fist of his father, the village's blacksmith. The man was feared for his brutal temper and infamous for his drunken rages. Every night, the air in their home was thick with the sound of bottles shattering and fists hitting flesh. The boy learned early to stay silent, to move like a shadow, and to endure the blows when they came. His father's anger was like the forge he worked—blazing hot and unrelenting.
His mother, fragile and beaten down, did what she could to shield him from the worst of it, but she was no match for his father's fury. Her body was covered in bruises, her spirit crushed long before. She often whispered words of comfort to him, her voice a soothing balm against the chaos that surrounded them. "You must be strong, my love," she would say, her hands gently brushing his hair as they huddled together in the dim light. But her comfort was a fragile thing, quickly swallowed by the darkness of their home.
One night, after years of torment, his father finally went too far. In a fit of drunken violence, the man struck her down, her frail body crumpling to the dirt floor as the boy watched in helpless horror. Her shallow breaths were the last sounds she made before the life drained out of her, leaving an eerie silence that seemed to echo throughout the room.
The boy stood frozen in shock, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at his mother's lifeless form. He could feel the chill of fear creeping into his bones, paralyzing him in that moment of horror. His father, barely noticing what he had done, staggered toward him, his eyes glazed with drink and rage. "Ye think ye can look at me like that, boy?" he slurred, his voice a deep, growling threat. "I'll teach ye to respect yer old man."
The man grabbed for the boy, but in his terror, the child stumbled backward, his hands finding the hammer his father used for forging. It was heavy and cold in his grip, a tool of creation turned weapon of desperation. His father lunged at him, roaring. "Ye unruly brat, I'll beat the life outta ye!" The boy could sense the storm brewing inside him, the fear and pain twisting into something else—something primal.
In sheer panic, the boy swung the hammer, more out of instinct than intent. It flew from his grip and struck his father squarely in the head with a sickening thud. The man fell where he stood, his body hitting the floor like a collapsing beast, his eyes vacant and still. He was dead.
For a long moment, the boy stood there, trembling, his heart racing as he looked at the bodies of both his parents—his mother lying cold and silent, his father dead by his own hand. His breath came in shallow gasps, the weight of what had just happened crushing him like a mountain. Time stretched, and the world around him blurred, filled with the whispers of his heartache and confusion.
But when the villagers found him the next morning, standing over the bodies of his parents, they saw something else. They didn't see a frightened child. They saw a murderer. Word spread quickly—whispers of the boy who had killed his mother and then slaughtered his father in cold blood. No one believed it was an accident. No one cared that he had only acted in self-defense. To them, the blood of a monster ran in his veins, and now that monster had claimed both his parents.
The village elders shunned him, and the rest of the villagers followed suit. Wherever he went, people turned away, muttering curses under their breath, spitting on the ground as he passed. Children taunted him, calling him a "demon child" and "kin-slayer." They threw stones at him, kicked him when he was down, and made sure he knew that he would never be one of them. His innocence had been stained, and the villagers were determined to ensure that he felt the weight of their disdain.
He scavenged for food, barely surviving on scraps and whatever he could steal from the woods. The rustling leaves and whispering winds became his only companions as he roamed the outskirts of the village, a ghost among the living. He became a shadow in his own village, unwanted and unloved, his only companions the memories of his parents' deaths. Each passing day felt like an eternity, and with each sunrise, he grappled with the haunting reminder of what had transpired.
One fateful day, as he scrounged for food near the edge of the village, a group of overgrown brats, older and stronger, spotted him. "Look at the freak!" one of them jeered, laughter ringing in the air. They approached, their eyes glinting with malice. "What are you doing out here, boy? Can't you find your way home?"
Fear twisted in his gut, but he stood his ground. "Leave me alone," he warned, his voice steadier than he felt.
The brats closed in, shoving him and laughing. "What's wrong? Scared of a little fun? Where'd the guts from earlier go? Killing your old man and his bitch huh!"
Finally they had crossed the line, the boy unleashed a fury that had been pent up for years. He swung at the nearest one, a larger boy, and to his surprise, he connected. The brute stumbled back, shocked, and the boy found himself consumed by adrenaline. He fought with a ferocity that shocked even him, the years of torment fueling his every move.
Within moments, the overgrown brats lay on the ground, bruised and terrified. The boy stood over them, breathing heavily, a mixture of triumph and dread swirling within him. In that instant, he was no longer the scared child but a force to be reckoned with. Yet, the victory was bittersweet; he had become what he had always feared a monster
But his victory didn't change how the village saw him. If anything, it only deepened their hatred. The whispers grew darker, the stares colder. The villagers said he was cursed, that the blood of a killer would always be a killer. Each day felt like a weight upon his shoulders, an unshakeable burden of blame and scorn.
He was more alone than ever, but now, at least, they left him in peace. No one dared touch him again, but they never stopped blaming him for the deaths of his parents. The loneliness became a part of him, wrapping around his heart like a shroud. And as he wandered the edges of the village, he couldn't help but feel the shadows closing in, whispering the truth he couldn't escape.
"In shadows cast by lost and pain,
The heart once pure, now bears the stain."