The slap came first. A sharp, echoing crack that sent him spiraling backward into the depths of recollection.
"I've told you a thousand times not to go to the village, you worthless brat!"
The words followed, laced with venom, each syllable slicing through him deeper than the sting on his cheek.
"I work myself to the bone to feed you, and you defy the one thing I ask of you! I don't know why I even had you—only for you to become... this. I told you to train, to be stronger! Do you want to end up as an easy target? Go to your room and think about what you've done."
He had held his cheek back then, his fingers trembling over the burning skin. But the pain wasn't just physical. It was something deeper, something bitter that settled into his bones. A voice, cold and accusing, had whispered in the back of his mind:
"She always scolds me if I get close to the village or try to make friends. And now she slaps me? Why did she even bother having me? She's ashamed, that's all. Hiding me away so no one remembers the disgrace of an illegitimate child. But they all know anyway. They always knew."
The memory tightened around him like a vice, the weight of it pressing against his chest. He had spent years trying to ignore that voice, trying to silence it, to prove it wrong. But it never truly left. It lurked beneath the surface, waiting for quiet moments like these to remind him of what he was.
Leo shot her a glare brimming with resentment as he climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. But something inside him refused to let it go. He stopped midway, turned sharply on his heel, and faced her once more. His fists clenched at his sides, his voice tight with barely contained fury.
"If you're so concerned with your honor in the village," he spat, the words tasting like venom on his tongue, "maybe you should've thought about that before having an illegitimate child."
The moment the words left his mouth, the room seemed to freeze. For a split second, he thought he saw something flicker across her face—an anguish so raw it almost made him hesitate. Almost.
He turned away before he could dwell on it, stomping into his room and slamming the door behind him. His breaths were ragged, his chest rising and falling as if he'd run a great distance. His mind raced, anger and guilt waging war inside him. For a fleeting moment, a twinge of regret surfaced. But the fire of resentment quickly smothered it.
"She deserved it," he muttered under his breath, pacing the room like a caged animal. "I don't care what she says. I'll sleep, and tomorrow, I'll go to the village. I'll make friends. She can't keep me locked up forever. I'm sixteen now—I've endured enough. Today's slap was the last straw."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the house, Rita collapsed onto a wooden chair, pressing a trembling hand over her heart. The other covered her forehead as though shielding herself from the weight of her own thoughts. Her shoulders shook as silent tears fell, each one heavier than the last.
"Does he really believe he's an illegitimate child?" The question escaped her lips in a choked whisper, barely audible over the quiet of the house. "Oh, dear God, what do I do? He didn't deserve that slap… but if I don't keep him away, they'll find us. I can't lose him too. I just… can't."
The house fell into an unbearable silence, thick with sorrow. Her quiet sobs clung to the dimly lit room like lingering shadows, wrapping her in a shroud of quiet despair.
By morning, the air had shifted. The first rays of sunlight slipped through Leo's window, casting a dull glow over his restless form. He threw off the covers and rushed downstairs, his steps quick, purposeful.
At the kitchen table, a modest breakfast waited—fresh bread, a steaming bowl of porridge, a piece of fruit carefully placed beside it. His mother's doing. He barely spared it a glance. Without hesitation, he strode past it, toward the door.
Rita turned just as he stepped outside. "Don't go far," she called after him.
There was no warmth in her tone—only an edge, sharp and warning. It wasn't a request. It was a plea wrapped in fear.
Leo hesitated for only a moment before stepping into the sunlit world beyond the threshold, never noticing the way her fingers clutched the fabric of her dress, knuckles white, as if trying to hold onto something already slipping away.
Leo had woken up with a rare sense of excitement, eager to meet the young men he had befriended the day before. He had never truly belonged anywhere, but yesterday had felt different—almost like a promise of something more. So when they welcomed him with easy smiles and a casual, "Come on, we've got work to do," he hadn't hesitated to follow.
The morning passed in a blur of sweat and effort. He helped wrangle the horses into their stalls, shoveled hay, cleaned hooves, and hauled water from the well. At first, he barely noticed that he was the only one truly working. They laughed and chatted, occasionally giving him a nod of approval or a joke at his expense.
"It's just part of the friendship," he told himself, brushing off the twinge of doubt creeping at the back of his mind. They had accepted him, hadn't they? This was what being 'one of them' meant, right?
But as the sun climbed higher, reality set in. The others had disappeared. One by one, they had slipped away, leaving him alone to finish the work. His hands ached, his back was sore, and the bitter taste of realization settled on his tongue.
Still, he refused to let anger take root. Maybe they had just gone ahead, waiting for him somewhere. Maybe this was some kind of test. So he dusted off his tunic, wiped the sweat from his brow, and went searching for them.
That's when he heard the laughter.
It came from behind the stable, carefree and unguarded, the kind of laughter that made his stomach twist before he even knew why. Moving closer, he kept to the shadows, his heartbeat quickening as he recognized Carlos's voice—the supposed leader of the group.
"I can't believe he actually did all the work just because I asked," Carlos sneered. "It's like having a personal servant."
Laughter erupted from the others, cruel and mocking. Another voice chimed in, "Has anyone seen the rags he's wearing? He looks like he's here to scare off crows, not to hang out with us."
More laughter. Louder this time.
Leo felt his fists clench, but he forced himself to stay still. Maybe it wasn't him they were talking about. Maybe—
But then Carlos spoke again, his voice dripping with amusement.
"Forget his clothes. He's the son of that whore."
Everything inside Leo went still.
"I bet she wouldn't mind spending a night with me for a little money," Carlos continued, his tone lazily cruel. "She cleans our house, you know. And to be honest, she's got a nice backside."
The group howled with laughter.
Leo's breath caught in his throat. His vision blurred at the edges, rage rushing through him so suddenly, so violently, that for a moment, he couldn't think.
Then, without a second thought, he stepped into the light.
The room exploded with laughter, cruel and unrestrained, echoing off the stable walls like a chorus of mockery. Leo's fists trembled at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. The words burned through him, each one sharper than a blade. His breath came in short, ragged bursts.
Then, before he even realized what he was doing, he lunged.
His fist connected with Carlos's jaw in a brutal, satisfying crack. The laughter died instantly, replaced by a stunned silence. Carlos staggered back, clutching his face in shock—but only for a second.
Then, his friends retaliated.
Leo barely registered the first blow before another followed, then another. A fist slammed into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. A boot struck his side, sending him sprawling onto the dirt. Voices jeered above him, their insults blending into the pain.
"You'll learn not to overstep your place, you little bastard!"
Another kick, another punch. The world blurred around him, pain surging through his limbs like fire. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The gang lost interest, their laughter fading as they walked away, leaving him in the dirt, bruised and broken.
The sky had darkened by the time Leo limped home, each step agonizing. Dried blood crusted on his lip, his vision swam, but the worst of it wasn't the pain. It was the humiliation.
As he pushed open the door, his mother turned, laundry still in her hands. The moment her eyes landed on him, everything else was forgotten. The fabric slipped from her grasp as she rushed toward him, her face twisted with worry.
"Leo, what—"
But before she could touch him, he shoved her away.
"Do you like what you see?" he snapped, his voice hoarse with rage. "This—this is because of you and your filthy deeds!"
Rita flinched as if he had struck her.
Leo's breath came hard and fast, his chest heaving. But she said nothing. Not at first.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she muttered, "I told you not to go to the village."
Something inside him snapped.
"The village, the village," he spat, his voice thick with venom. "Look at me! And that's all you care about? Are you even my mother?" His voice wavered, but he didn't stop. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm even your son."
Silence.
For a moment, he thought she might cry. Might scream at him. Might say something.
Instead, her face turned to stone.
Without another word, she bent down, picked up the fallen laundry, and began folding again as if nothing had happened.
"Sort yourself out," she said flatly. Her voice was devoid of emotion, cold as winter steel.
Leo stormed up to his room, slamming the door behind him. He collapsed onto his bed, wincing at the pain that flared through his body. His anger still burned hot, but exhaustion soon dulled it.
He didn't know how long he lay there, drowning in fury and pain, before the sudden, violent shaking jolted him awake.
His eyes blinked open in confusion. His mother was standing over him, her face pale, her hands gripping his shoulders with unexpected strength.
"What—?" His voice was groggy, thick with sleep.
"Get up," Rita ordered. Her voice was sharp, urgent.
Leo frowned. "It's the middle of the night. What's going on?"
"There's no time," she snapped.
"No time for what?" He sat up, his mind still struggling to catch up.
"Just pack your things."
Leo stared at her. "Pack? Why?"
She wouldn't look at him. Her expression was unreadable, her face still as cold as before.
"I don't care," she said finally. "I can't stand someone like you in my house anymore. Get out."
The words landed like a blow, heavier than any punch he had taken earlier.
For a moment, he thought he had misheard.
"You're… you're kicking me out?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
She didn't answer. Didn't look at him.
Just stood there. Waiting.
He stood in the shadows, a hundred meters away, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The night wrapped around him like a suffocating cloak, its silence broken only by the whisper of wind through the trees. He had been watching for what felt like an eternity, speaking to himself in hushed, disbelieving tones.
He had never truly understood her—his mother. But tonight, clarity struck like a lightning bolt, fierce and blinding. She did not love him. It was the only explanation. Why else would she have cast him out so easily, all because he had gone to town? It was absurd. Unthinkable. And yet, here he was, abandoned.
His gaze snapped to the house. She stood by the doorway, her slender figure framed by the dim light spilling from within. She lingered there, hesitating, as though awaiting someone. His heart pounded. Then, movement. A shadow detached itself from the darkness, a man approaching the house with measured steps.
He strained his eyes, but the night was a fickle accomplice, veiling the intruder's identity. He could only watch as the man stepped through the threshold—into what was once his home. A hollow laugh bubbled up from his throat, bitter and sharp. Was this what it all meant? That she had forsaken him for another? That she had thrown her only son to the streets to welcome a stranger into her bed?
A fresh wave of rage surged through him, burning hotter than any fire. His mind raced, spinning tales of betrayal, of wickedness beyond redemption. She was a whore. She had to be. How else could he explain such cruelty?
He could not stand it. His limbs moved before his mind could stop them. He sprinted towards the house, his anger carrying him forward like a storm unleashed. The door yielded beneath his hand, and as he stepped inside, something unexpected struck him—a scent, faint yet distinct. Gasoline. Subtle, masked beneath the cloying sweetness of perfume.
He knew that fragrance. It belonged to his mother, a scent she never wore. "For special occasions," she had always said.
His stomach twisted.
A sound upstairs. A shuffle, a gasp.
He bolted up the staircase, two steps at a time, his pulse hammering against his ribs. He would catch them in the act, expose their vile treachery—
But what he found shattered him.
The man was no lover. He loomed over her, a blade buried deep in her stomach, his voice a growl of rage.
"Tell me where the boy is," the stranger demanded. "And I'll make your suffering quick. Believe me."
The world tilted. He could not breathe.
"Mom!" His scream tore through the air, raw, desperate.
Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with terror. Blood spilled from her lips as she whispered, "I told you to leave. Why did you come back?" Her voice broke. "Run. Now."