Part 1
Darkness… as far as the eye could see, it was pitch black, so much so that I couldn't even see my own hands. Not just that, but it was cold and lonely. It felt like the place was dead, devoid of all hope and life. The metallic scent mixed with a hint of blood hung in the air, a smell I was all too familiar with.
The atmosphere felt heavy and suffocating; it reminded me of that claustrophobic closet in middle school. In that moment of despair, I couldn't help but remember how I had always blended into the background, like a small bud in a garden.
It was during my second year of middle school when the bullies who often picked on me locked me in the school closet, leaving me alone in the dark. By the time my foster parents noticed that I was missing, it was already midnight.
Since then, the words "Do I even matter?" have plagued my mind. I sometimes hear them echoing in the silence of this void, but I guess that's just me going crazy.
Part 2
Apparently, I didn't die, or so I think.
As I float in this abyss, hours, days, maybe even weeks have slipped by without my notice. As you can guess, I don't have much sense of time in here. There is essentially nothing in this void, and if it weren't for the occasional voices I hear from time to time, I'm pretty sure I would've lost my mind by now.
I can't make much out of the voices, but I feel like there's some sort of meaning to them, like they aren't just random sounds. There is a structure, a form, kind of like another language…?
Part 3
"Is this hell? Must be, although what difference does it make? It's just one form of torture to another."
"I wonder what I did to deserve this endless nothingness?" I sighed, but my mind was blank, and there was no answer.
After all, even though I was a shut-in and a NEET, I didn't explicitly go out of my way to commit any sins. Well, it didn't really bother me that much, considering I am used to being alone.
A few more hours passed by, and the voices grew clearer and more frequent. At this point, I am pretty sure this is a language.
Thoughts like "Am I in some other country right now?" started to pass through my mind. Suddenly, the voices turned from words to groans and grunts, pretty loud ones at that. The echoes of those voices were almost tangible, stirring up memories of my tormentors from school.
Another bad memory flew in, sending a shiver down my spine. This time it was about the time when, in my first year of high school, I was finally able to make a friend. My first friend…
I was so happy to think people would still be friends with an orphan like me. It felt like I was being rewarded for my hard labor until now, but that happiness didn't last long. As usual, once my bullies heard about it, they just couldn't sit still and let me have a moment of peace.
They thoroughly beat up my friend in front of me, to the point where his nose was broken, and threatened him to not get involved with me any further. All I could do was stand there in anger, clenching my fists. His cries of pain still ring in my ears as if it happened just yesterday. Maybe I could have helped if only I had the courage back then.
But that wasn't even the worst of it. The news of my friend being beaten up reached the school. I think my bullies forgot about the fact that I was the only one who didn't have anyone to back me up.
It was quite obvious that after being beaten up that badly, my friend's parents would question him about what happened. The bullies were called in, and I almost felt like I had finally won, but then it hit me.
In this world, the ones who get punished for their actions aren't the ones who are at fault but the ones who are weak and lack support.
They threatened my friend to put the blame on me. Of course, he was scared of being beaten up again. Who wouldn't be? So he did as they said; I was blamed as the perpetrator and was suspended. My foster parents didn't even question it; they were too stereotypical to think otherwise.
I think that was the day I decided that I'd drop out of school. My heart rate spiked as the grunts turned into screeches, as if someone was in excruciating pain.
A chill crawled up my spine. Was I in some kind of torture chamber? Or in an organ-harvesting plant? Maybe even a secret government facility conducting deranged experiments?
At first, I tried to stay calm, telling myself that it was okay and it was just my imagination. But with each passing minute, my pulse hastened to the point where I could hear my own heartbeat. My hands started to shake; it was as if the air could no longer reach my lungs. It felt like drowning, a sensation I was quite familiar with. I started hyperventilating; it felt like my guts were being pulled out.
I never realized how scary torture can seem. Of course, I had seen it in movies, and even though it looked painful, I couldn't help but think that it wasn't too big of a deal.
But now? When it's my turn, just the possibility of torture is enough to make me tremble. I jumped at the smallest incentives. I tried to calm myself down, but the thought of blood, drills, and knives wouldn't leave my mind. Heck! It's scarier than taking your own life.
As despair threatened to consume me, I felt a sudden warmth, a stark contrast to the chilling void. From the corner of my eye, I could make out something that looked like a flash of light. The light source was quite small, but even that small source had a big presence.
The atmosphere looked completely different. The cold and dark place suddenly felt like a warm cradle of sorts.
For some reason, to me, that source of light glimmered as if it were a ray of hope, hope that I could get out of this hellhole. It was the only thing that was different, the only thing that felt like it had life. At that point, I didn't even care if it was a torturer waiting for me; all I wanted was to see another human. Heck, even an animal would work, just something that had life and warmth.
Without a second thought, I started running toward it. Possibilities like it being dangerous or fatal didn't even cross my mind. All the fear I felt suddenly vanished into thin air; my body was subconsciously attracted to that light. I jolted into action, running as fast as I could, as fast as this clunky, overweight, stiff body let me.
Yet, just as hope began to take root, my past surged forward, desperate to reclaim my attention.
No matter how long or how fast I ran, the tiny spark of light felt like it was fading away. I never got close to it.
Doubts started to pop up in my mind, gnawing at me from inside, but I still kept on pushing forward. It seemed as though the tiny spark of light was constantly moving further away from me, as if the gods themselves were taunting me, that no matter how much I tried, no matter how much I ran, I'd never reach it…
Before I knew it, I had stopped chasing after it. My body began to clench up, and the warm embrace of the light started to turn cold, as if I were trapped in ice. It felt like I was being choked at the brink of death, unable to finally pass on. My mind started to fill with despair.
I believed—no, I made myself believe—that there was no point. No matter how much I ran, how much I tried, I was bound to fail. Memories of my past started to flood my mind.
I have always been like this, giving up on things too early. It's just like the time when I decided to give up on school because the bullying got too hard, or when I gave up on finding new parents, or on my own fucking life.
I was out of breath, my mind was full of doubts, and my body was aching all over from running so much for the first time in years. It felt as if the darkness itself took the form of a blade and was stabbing me from within.
Yet another bad memory sprung into my mind. Th… this was one of my worst ones, worse than getting bullied, worse than having your only friend turn on you. I had forgotten about it.
Now that I think about it, it was probably my subconscious desperately trying to prevent me from completely breaking down.
It was the memory of when my dad, my biological father, stabbed my mother to death, in front of my very eyes…
When I was about 4 years old, I still had a real family. Not a great one by any means, though.
I was a result of a teen pregnancy; my mother got pregnant with me when she was in high school. I think my father was in his second year of medical college back then. Due to her getting pregnant, my mother was kicked out of her house and had to drop out of high school.
With no other means for survival, she threatened my dad into taking responsibility for us both since this was his deed, and just like my mother, my father too had to drop out and take up a job.
The rest was just as you'd think. They both got married; I was born. Our financial situation was rough. My mother used to beat me up and scream at me the entire day, saying that I ruined her life and that she wished I'd just die. But then again, her motherly instincts wouldn't let her kill me. During the nights, my dad would come home drunk and beat up both me and my mother.
It was like any other day; my mother nagged at me the entire day, but my dad, for some reason, came back a little earlier than usual.
This time, he wasn't drunk, but his eyes… they were bloodshot red. He was shivering, probably from the various emotions he was feeling. He didn't say a single word the entire evening, and my mother didn't question him much, afraid that he might snap.
After finishing his meal, he just went to his room, locked the door, and came out about an hour later. With a knife in his hands, I was confused back then, but my mother instantly knew what was wrong. She quickly grabbed me and sprang toward the door. My father swiftly followed her, making his way through the tiny living room. My mother had barely managed to spring the door open when I heard a gasp, followed by an ear-piercing shriek.
When I turned around, everything was red. Blood was gushing out from my mother's stomach, an unusual amount. Of course, back then, I was too young to understand what was going on. She fell to the ground in pain. By this time, my neighbors had seen what was going on and had dialed the police. The last words that my mother said while covered in her own blood were,
"It's your fault."
By the time the police arrived, it was already too late. My father had already slit his own throat. And there I was, standing blankly amidst the blue and red flashing lights, unable to make sense of what was going on.
I later learned from my first set of foster parents that my father had apparently been fired from his job that day. He decided that this was the day he would end it all, so he killed my mother and then himself. My mother had 11 stab wounds and finally died due to severe organ damage.
Tears started to flow from my eyes in an unruly manner, as if I were a newborn baby. I was completely overwhelmed by grief; my body felt stiff as ice, and my mind was blank.
Just then, I felt something close to liberation, and the light started to grow. It started to enlarge—no, rather, it started to move toward me. By the time I could make sense of anything, I was engulfed by its warm embrace, like a mother's hug.
My body started to feel lighter, and my sense of grief started to melt. It was as if I had been freed from the chains of my past that had held me for so long. The suffocating atmosphere of the void turned into a fresh, relaxing, and warm one, as if I were in a valley full of trees. My sobs turned into quiet and steady whimpers.
Tears still flowing, I slowly opened my eyes…