The world is a cruel teacher, and I learned its harshest lessons before most children learn to ride a bike.
Nine years ago, my life became a nightmare etched in blood and desperation. My father wasn't just a gambler—he was a broken man chasing impossible dreams through the toxic haze of gambling dens and back-alley card tables. Each bet was another nail in our family's coffin, each loss another chain binding us to a fate worse than death.
When he finally realized the depth of his mistakes, the terror in his eyes was something I'd never forget. The debts weren't just money anymore. They were a death sentence.
We tried to run. A desperate family—my mother clutching a small bag of our most precious possessions, my father's hands shaking but determined. I remember the sound of our old car sputtering, the way my mother whispered prayers under her breath, the tension that felt like a knife pressed against our throats.
We didn't get far.
They found us on a rain-soaked highway, the night dark and unforgiving. I watched—frozen, helpless—as they pulled my parents from the car. The violence was swift. Brutal. My mother's scream was cut short. My father's desperate pleas dissolved into silence.
And then there was me.
The next years became a blur of pain and survival. My captors weren't just criminals—they were monsters who saw me as nothing more than a debt collector, a punching bag, a tool to be used and discarded. The cinder block cell they put me in became my entire world—cold concrete walls, a thin mattress that smelled of mold and despair, and the constant awareness that I was nothing more than property.
They beat me for entertainment. Fed me just enough to keep me alive and functional. Every day was a calculation of survival, every moment a test of how much pain I could endure.
Now at fifteen, Im old enough to understand my hopelessness but young enough to still dream.
The glass shard I found and stashed earlier that day became my first real choice for escape. Hidden carefully in my sleeve, it represented my only path to freedom. That night, pressed against the cold wall, I allowed myself one final fantasy—a life I'd never live. Normal teenage moments flickered through my mind like a bittersweet film: walking home from school, studying with friends, enjoying a home-cooked meal, experiencing the simple joys stolen from me.
I'm sorry, Mom and Dad, I thought. I'm not strong enough to live, but I refuse to let them win.
But when the moment came, my resolve shattered. The glass slipped from my trembling fingers. Tears—years of suppressed pain—consumed me and I passed out.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
My captor's morning routine was always the same—cold water, a kick to the ribs, cruel laughter. But this time, something inside me fractured. The glass shard—once my planned instrument of suicide—became a weapon of pure, unbridled rage.
I attacked with a fury born of nine years of suffering.
The first strike was instinctive. The subsequent strikes were vengeance.
Blood. So much blood.
Then a gunshot rang out.I look and see one of my captures standing at the door with a gun. Then I look down to see the hole the bullet buried in my chest. Losing control over my body I fell to the ground. I thought to myself this isn't fair I deserve a second chance id do better if only i got a second chance. And then… Brightness. Pain. Darkness.
And then—impossibly—awareness.
The impossible happened… I opened my eyes. The sky above me was impossibly blue, stretching infinitely compared to the cramped cell ceiling I'd known for years. As I sat up, the world seemed to shimmer and shift, reality bending around me.
This wasn't my world.
Horse-drawn carriages rolled down cobblestone streets. People wearing armor walked alongside what could only be described as humanoid animals. The architecture looked like it had been lifted directly from the fantasy manga I'd once sneaked glimpses of during rare moments of peace.
My body felt different. Smaller. Younger.
A nearby puddle reflected a face that wasn't mine—yet was undeniably me.
Panic rose in my throat. The street sounds transformed into a cacophony of incomprehensible noise. My vision blurred, the world spinning like a kaleidoscope of impossible colors and shapes.
And then, mercifully, darkness claimed me once more.
This was not an ending. This was a beginning.