My earliest memories were blurred, like fragments of a shattered glass mirror. Bits and pieces of what was once a whole, distorted by time and the pain that followed. I was 9 when they took my parents from me. A tragic accident, they told me. But I knew better. Children aren't born with the capacity to lie, but they sure as hell learn to recognize one when it's staring them in the face.
The truth was more sinister. My parents' so-called "friends" had orchestrated their deaths. They had made sure to eliminate anyone who stood between them and the inheritance, and when that was done, they took me in, as though I were nothing more than a bargaining chip, a pawn in a cruel game they played for wealth.
I don't remember my real parents clearly. Only flashes of their faces, the warmth of their embrace, and the smell of my mother's perfume lingering in my dreams. They were taken before I could truly understand what love was, before I could even learn the meaning of family.
What I was left with were strangers—cold, unfeeling figures who called themselves my "adoptive parents." They showed me no kindness, no affection. They took pleasure in my suffering, in reminding me daily that I was worthless, that my existence was nothing but a reminder of something they never wanted.
The attic was my world. A small, suffocating space where the air was thick with dust, and the floor creaked with every movement. It was where they kept me, locked away from the rest of the house like some shameful secret. I couldn't remember the last time I had a warm meal or a bed that wasn't nothing more than a pile of old rags.
For seven years, I lived this way. Seven years of constant torment, of being reminded every day that I was not wanted. I was a servant, a tool, a means to an end. And I could do nothing but endure it. No matter how many times I tried to fight back, I was nothing more than a child. Powerless. Helpless.
I remember the school days clearly. The whispers behind my back, the cruel taunts in the hallways. They called me names, not just the kids at school, but the teachers too. "Orphan," "Weakling," "Useless." I was a target, not just because of the bruises on my body, but because of the way I held my head low. I didn't dare fight back. What was the point? They were too many. Too strong.
The bullying at school was just as relentless as the abuse at home. I remember the day when they pushed me into the mud, laughing as I struggled to get up. I couldn't even look them in the eye. My knees were scraped, my uniform stained, and my hands were covered in dirt. But they didn't stop. They kicked me, not because they needed to, but because they wanted to feel power over someone. Over me.
I remember the cold feeling of despair settling deep in my bones. The hopelessness that I carried every day as I walked the halls, knowing that no matter where I went, the cruelty would follow. I had no friends. No one cared. I had no one to turn to. The walls of my world kept getting smaller, and I was suffocating.
And it wasn't just the kids. I could feel the judgment in every glance the teachers gave me, the way they avoided looking at me, as if I were some disease that might spread. I was nothing. I was no one.
I had hoped, once, that maybe things would change, that maybe someone would see me, truly see me, for who I was. But hope was a cruel thing. It always ended in disappointment. It always led to more pain.
I had no choice but to accept it. The silence, the pain, the isolation. For seven years, I endured it, living in a cage of my own making.
But then, everything changed.
When I was 16, I overheard the truth. The truth I had been too scared to face for so long. I was never meant to be loved. I was never meant to be anything more than a tool.
That night, when I heard them talking about how they had killed my parents, how they had taken everything, it shattered something inside me. It broke the last bit of innocence I had left.
They didn't need me anymore. I wasn't a pawn anymore. I was nothing but a threat to their wealth, their control. And when I made a noise, a simple, unintentional noise, they heard it.
They came for me. They came with the same cold eyes that had watched me suffer for years. They came with the intent to finish what they had started. To kill me too.
I fought. I fought with everything I had left. I wasn't going to die like this. Not after everything I had endured. I wasn't going to let them win.
The fight was chaotic, wild. They were stronger, but I was desperate. I grabbed the knife from the kitchen, my hand trembling as I held it in front of me. The cold steel felt alien in my hand, but I didn't hesitate. I had to survive.
I slashed, my body moving on instinct. My adoptive father came at me, fists raised, but I cut into him, the knife biting deep into his arm. He screamed, stepping back in shock. But it wasn't enough. He lunged again, and I felt his grip on me tighten, his fingers digging into my skin as he tried to crush the life out of me.
My adoptive mother wasn't far behind. Her hands reached for me, trying to restrain me, but I fought back with everything I had. My heart was pounding, blood rushing in my ears. The blade found her, and she stumbled back, clutching at her wound.
But even as I fought, my body was weakening. My vision blurred, and the pain in my side was unbearable. I had given everything I had, and now, it was slipping away.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I was drowning in my own pain, my own exhaustion.
I turned and fled, blood dripping from my wounds, my legs unsteady as I ran toward the one place I had ever felt some semblance of peace—the mountain. The place where, even for a brief moment, I could forget everything. Forget the pain. Forget the loneliness. Forget everything.
I reached the top of the mountain, barely able to stand. My body was broken, and my heart was shattered. I collapsed to my knees, gasping for air, every breath a struggle. The cold mountain air bit into my skin, but I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything anymore.
All I could think about was how much I had suffered. How much pain I had endured. How I had been nothing but a target, a victim of a cruel world. The memories of my parents, of the years of abuse, the bullying, it all came crashing down on me.
I was alone.
I closed my eyes, the weight of everything pulling me deeper into darkness. Life was slipping away from me. And I welcomed it. I didn't care anymore. The pain was too much. The world had broken me.
But then, as if the universe had heard my silent plea, something happened. A light—brighter than the stars—struck the earth. The ground trembled beneath me, the air thick with power. The light surrounded me, and for the first time in my life, I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
The world went black