Even in infancy, the world held little warmth for Taro. His earliest memories were filled with a chilling silence born of his father's resentment. His father, a man consumed by darkness, never wanted a child and made that brutally clear. Taro represented a life his father felt had been stolen.

As Taro grew, the resemblance to his father became a cruel twist of fate. He inherited his father's sharp jawline and piercing gaze, a constant reminder of the man he never wanted to be. His mother, haunted by the past, saw her husband in Taro's face. "You look just like him," she would say, her voice laced with bitterness. "Every time I see you, it's like he's back."

"If not for you," she rasped, "he wouldn't have..." Her unspoken accusation suffocated Taro. He hated his appearance, carrying the mark of his father's violence. He longed to erase the features that seemed to condemn him.

Adding to the complexity of Taro's early life was the presence of his siblings. He was the middle child, between his older brother, Jiro, and younger sister, Hana. Jiro, a brute who inherited their grandfather's temper and penchant for alcohol, became another source of torment. He saw Taro as an easy target, a way to vent his frustrations.

Taro never knew when Jiro's abuse would erupt; a shove, a slap, a cruel taunt. Jiro, fueled by alcohol and a twisted sense of power, relished inflicting pain.

The weight of his family's dysfunction settled heavily on Taro. He became the glue that held them together, caring for Hana and managing his mother's debts. The pressure was immense, the emotional toll devastating. He carried the burden of their pain, their mistakes, their inability to break free. The hatred he once felt for his family morphed into self-loathing. He felt worthless, deserving of his torment.

Despite the darkness, Taro clung to hope. He dreamed of escaping his past and finding peace. But the reality of his situation seemed insurmountable.

Rain lashed against the window. Inside, Taro pressed himself into a corner, seeking reprieve from the storm raging within their home. The air reeked of stale alcohol, a scent that clung to his brother.

"Look at you," his brother spat, his voice slicing through the silence. He swayed on his feet, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Taro. "You're the spitting image of him. Do you know what mother calls you?... a curse."

Each word bruised Taro's soul. He knew the accusations to follow; it was always his fault. He was the living embodiment of his father's sins.

Jiro, emboldened by Taro's silence, stepped closer. The stench of alcohol hit Taro like a physical blow. "You're pathetic," Jiro sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Just like him. Weak. Worthless".

Taro remained motionless, his gaze fixed on a point beyond his brother's shoulder. It was easier to detach, to let the insults wash over him like waves against a rocky shore. He had learned long ago that any reaction, any show of emotion, would only fuel Jiro's cruelty.

"What are you staring at?" Jiro demanded, grabbing Taro's chin and forcing him to meet his gaze. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Jiro launched into a tirade of insults, each one aimed at chipping away at Taro's already fragile sense of self-worth. He called him pathetic, a waste of space, a constant reminder of their father's failings. His words were laced with a venomous hatred that Taro knew was born from years of unspoken resentment and a twisted sense of sibling rivalry.

Taro's shirt, ripped from a school fight earlier that day where he was the victim of relentless bullying, became Jiro's next target. "Look at you," Jiro spat, grabbing the torn fabric and yanking it. "Fighting back, are we? Trying to be tough like him?" He punctuated his words with a sharp punch to Taro's stomach, making him double over in pain.

Jiro's rage, a frightening mirror of their grandfather's fury, erupted in a flurry of blows. Taro, accustomed to his brother's abuse, offered no resistance. He curled into himself, trying to protect his vital organs as fists and feet rained down upon him. The beating continued for what felt like hours, each blow a testament to Jiro's twisted need to assert his dominance.

Finally, with a vicious kick to Taro's abdomen, Jiro ended his assault. The force of the blow sent a wave of nausea through Taro, and he felt a warm wetness spreading through his pants. To his shame, he realized he had lost control of his bladder and bowels.

Jiro, noticing the smell, let out a roar of disgust. "You filthy animal!" he shouted, kicking Taro again. "Clean yourself up!" 

Instead of allowing Taro to clean himself, Jiro forced him into a painful horse stance, a cruel punishment designed to maximize his discomfort. He was made to stay there, frozen in place, all night long. The hours stretched into an eternity as Taro stood in his own filth, the stench filling his nostrils, the shame burning like acid in his throat.

In the morning, Taro's mother, awakened by the overwhelming odor, finally released him from his torment. She showed no sympathy for her son's suffering, only disgust at the mess he had made. Without a word of comfort or a hint of remorse for her eldest son's actions, she ordered Taro to clean himself up.