I was four when it all started. I remember it clearly, the day everything turned to dust. It was a normal afternoon—Mom had gone to the store, and Dad was with me, playing hide and seek, like we always did. But that day, the closet was too small. I squeezed myself into the corner, my heart already beating too fast from the game, when the door slammed open with a sound that shattered everything I knew. I didn't understand it at first. Someone was in our house, but I couldn't see them.
Daddy's voice, strong and warm, turned cold in an instant. "Stay hidden. Don't come out."
I froze. My little legs couldn't move, but my mind ran wild with fear. What was happening? Why wasn't Dad laughing anymore? Why did his voice sound so different? It was supposed to be a normal day. But in that moment, it wasn't. In that moment, everything was already changing.
I didn't hear Mom come back. Maybe I was too scared. Maybe it was too late by then. The man who came into our house didn't care.
There was a struggle. The sounds made my skin crawl. The desperate grunts, the thuds, the pleading. Then, the silence. The cold silence that felt like it was choking the life out of the world. When I finally came out of my hiding place, I saw it. My father, my protector, my hero—lying there. His eyes were open, but they weren't seeing anymore. His face still carried the remnants of his smile, but it was different. The light in his eyes was gone, and I couldn't understand how someone could smile when they were dying.
I didn't scream. I couldn't.
I just stood there, frozen, in front of him. The blood around him was dark, a thick stain soaking into the carpet. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. The smell of it hit me, sharp and metallic, but it wasn't just blood. It was Dad. The last bit of him was in that blood. And I couldn't escape it. I wanted to scream, to run to my mom, to do something. But all I could do was look at my dad's lifeless body and wonder—why him? Why did it have to be him?
He wasn't a bad man. He didn't deserve this. We didn't deserve this.
When Mom came home, I thought maybe, just maybe, it would be okay. But when she saw him, she screamed in a way I've never heard before. It was a scream that ripped through the air, a sound so full of pain, it made my heart stop.
"Why didn't you call me?!" she cried, her hands shaking as she looked at me, like I was the reason she couldn't save him. Like I was the reason he was gone.
I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to tell her that I hadn't even been able to move. That I hadn't known what to do. How could I have known? I was just a little boy. But she didn't want to hear that. She slapped me.
It wasn't the first time, but it felt different. This time, there was nothing but sorrow in her eyes. She was broken, and somehow, I knew it was because of me.
Years went by, but it felt like I was stuck in that moment, frozen in time. Mom changed. The light in her eyes flickered out, just like Dad's did. She started drinking. I didn't know what it was at first. She would sip it, and then, for a brief moment, she would smile. She would look at me like she used to, like everything was okay, like we were still a family.
But it never lasted.
She would always wake up, her eyes dull, her hands shaking. And then it would start. The beating. She would yell, slap me, punch me. She would tell me I was worthless, just like everyone else who left her. But in those moments, I couldn't blame her. I wanted to. I wanted to scream at her, to make her stop, to make her see me. But I couldn't. I was too small, too weak.
And then, when I turned nine, the war came. Everything we had was destroyed, bit by bit. Mom stopped drinking. There was no more of that magical drink to make her smile. There was no more pretending. The war took everything from us, just like the man who took Dad. It was like the world itself was slowly dying. And we were all just waiting for the end.
On my birthday, when everything crumbled, I thought maybe, just maybe, I'd find her again. I thought maybe, for a second, I could have the mom I once knew back. But it was too late. The building fell. I saw it. I saw the weight of her sadness crush her.
She tried to save me, but she couldn't. Not anymore.
She looked at me, tears in her eyes. She tried to speak, but the words couldn't come out. She was dying, and I could see it in her face. "Son, I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "I was a horrible mother. I never meant for it to be like this. I was just... trying to survive."
But I didn't know what she was saying anymore. I didn't care. My heart was already dead, buried under the weight of everything I had lost. My father. My mother. My childhood. My soul. All of it was gone.
I looked at her, and in that moment, I realized—I had already died. My innocence, my happiness, all of it had been taken long before this.
And I wanted to die too. I wanted to join them. I wanted to be free from this world that had taken everything from me. But I couldn't. Because I had learned something in all my suffering. The only thing left to do now was move forward. But how could I, when everything I had loved was now a memory, lost in the rubble?
I stared at my mother's lifeless body, and for the first time, I let myself cry. Not for the boy I used to be, but for the boy I had become. And in that moment, I understood. Crying wasn't just for sadness. It was for the anger, the loss, the grief that had built up inside of me, and for everything I would never have again.
I walked away from the ruins, not looking back. I knew I would never be the same. I was dead inside, but I was still walking. Still breathing. Still living.
And that, in itself, was a tragedy.