The winds howled through the desolate village, the bitter cold biting at anyone brave enough to step outside. In the heart of this quiet, forgotten place stood a small, dilapidated house, its walls cracked and the roof sagging under the weight of age. Inside, in a dimly lit room, a child cried.
His name was Diablo.
He wasn't like the other children. While the others had fine features—skin as smooth as polished marble, eyes like glimmering gems—he was different. His face was twisted and scarred, his skin dark and rough, as if the gods themselves had forgotten to bless him. His eyes, red as blood, stared out from a face that seemed more a curse than a gift.
His parents, once proud and full of love, had retreated into silence as they looked upon him. His mother's beautiful face always seemed to hold a look of disappointment whenever she glanced at him. His father, once a towering figure of strength, now wore a mask of bitterness. The family's name had once been respected in the village, but no longer. Diablo was a stain upon their legacy, and they could never erase it.
"Why can't you be normal?" his mother had whispered once, the words slicing through him like a dagger.
"Why are you so different?" his father had asked, not out of concern, but out of anger, as if Diablo's very existence was a betrayal.
And then, on that fateful day, they abandoned him. His parents, cold and emotionless, looked him in the eye and spoke the words that shattered his heart.
"You are nothing but a monster. Leave. We don't want you here anymore."
He had begged them, but his cries fell on deaf ears. They turned their backs on him without a second glance, leaving him alone in the cold, empty house. Diablo, no more than a child, was left to face a world that hated him, a world that would never understand him.
But fate had other plans.
As the sun began to rise, casting a pale orange glow over the horizon, the world seemed to hold its breath. The cold, harsh winds that had whipped through the night calmed, and a silence settled over the village. But in the broken house at the edge of town, another kind of silence filled the air—one that was suffocating and final.
Diablo's parents stood near the door, eyes red from sleepless nights and hearts heavy with regret. They had once been proud, filled with hope for the child they would raise. But now, as the first light of day touched the earth, they had made their decision.
They could no longer live with him.
The child—just shy of a year—had done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve the torment he faced. Yet, every glance at his twisted face, every time they heard his cries, only reminded them of their own failure. The village shunned them. Their legacy, once bright, was now tainted by his very existence. They couldn't live with the shame any longer.
His mother, trembling, held him tightly for a moment longer, as if to savor what little warmth he offered, but the thought of what she was about to do clouded her every emotion. Diablo, in her arms, was nothing more than a burden. Her heart broke as she whispered, her voice barely a breath, "Forgive us."
His father, stoic and cold, opened the door. The wind was sharp against his face, but the bitterness in his chest was colder. He motioned toward the path leading to the cliff—a jagged drop where the river roared below. The rushing waters, powerful and unforgiving, would erase any trace of the child.
They walked in silence, the child's small, soft body cradled between them. Diablo, unaware of the horrors unfolding, continued to cry, his tears a reflection of his innocence, his desperation to be loved.
The cliff loomed ahead, its edge bathed in the soft light of dawn. The river churned below, swift and merciless. His parents reached the edge, and for a moment, they stood still—staring down at the white froth below, their gazes hollow.
Then, with a broken heart, his mother handed him over to his father. Her hands shook as she pulled away, her tears falling without end. She could not bear to see him fall, but she could not bear to live with him either.Diablo's father held him over the cliff, the child's cries filling the air.
"Goodbye," he whispered, his voice trembling. Then, with a swift motion, he released his hold.
The world seemed to freeze in that instant.
The child plummeted, his tiny body tossed like a ragdoll into the chasm of the river below. His cries were swallowed by the roar of the water as he disappeared into the darkness.
And then, in the stillness, his parents stood at the edge, tears streaking down their faces. Their hearts broke in two—but it was a release. It was a relief, like lifting a weight they had carried for too long. The curse had been lifted.
A strange, twisted smile curled at the corners of their lips, though they wept uncontrollably. It was the smile of those who had been freed, even as the blood of innocence stained their souls.
They stood there, staring at the dark waters below, a quiet satisfaction blooming within them. They had done what was necessary. Diablo, their curse, was no more.
But the river, with its dark currents, had no intentions of letting go