⚠Trigger Warning
This chapter contains graphic depictions of:
Child abuse, Neglect, Physical and emotional violence, Drug addiction, Starvation, Homelessness, Implied sexual violence, Extreme psychological trauma
Reader discretion is strongly advised. This chapter is raw and intended to portray the harsh, unfiltered reality of survival through trauma. Please take care of your mental health before continuing.
_______
Before I was a killer, I was a boy.
And no one prayed for boys like me.
My parents weren't monsters.
Not at first.
But drugs don't turn people into ghosts overnight. It's slow. Like rust crawling across steel.
My mother used to hum lullabies. Then came the syringes.
My father used to carry me on his shoulders. Then came the pipes, the pills, the paranoia.
The house rotted from the inside. I was five the first time I saw them overdose—both of them foaming at the mouth on the floor, twitching. I didn't cry. I just sat there.
Waiting for them to wake up.
They always did. And every time they came back meaner.
The beatings started because I made noise. Then because I didn't.
I learned to tiptoe. To disappear inside myself. But it never mattered. My father would slam me into walls just to feel something. My mother would yank my hair and scream because she swore I was "laughing at her in my head."
We didn't have meals. We had scraps—moldy bread, half-eaten candy from the floor. If I asked for more, I got hit. If I was caught sneaking food, I got burned.
They took away my blanket one winter.
Said warmth made me "weak."
I remember shivering so hard my teeth cracked. My skin turned purple. My nails went black.
They laughed.
My mother's voice screeched like broken glass, slurred and soaked in something cheap. My father's fists spoke more than his words ever did.
Every time he hit me, he said he was "training the weakness out." But I never felt stronger. Only smaller.
"Look at him," my father said. "Useless even to die."
The bruises didn't fade anymore.
They layered. Like skin.
When they finally threw me out, it wasn't some dramatic scene.
It was just a Tuesday.
My father grabbed me by the arm and tossed me outside like trash, the door slamming behind me. My lip was split open, my eye already swollen from last night's blow.
No coat. No shoes.
Just a t-shirt soaked in old blood.
I banged on the door until my fists bled.
I waited until morning. Then the next night. No one opened it.By the third night, I stopped waiting. I stopped hoping.
And that's when I knew—I had no home. Only the street. Only the rot.
The streets didn't feel like freedom.
They felt like punishment.
I learned quickly how cold really felt—not a chill, but a bite. Like something gnawed at your bones from the inside.
I would press myself against the backs of buildings, away from the wind, curling up so tight my joints locked. My fingers turned stiff. Numb. Then came the pain. Then nothing.
My stomach caved in after two days with nothing to eat.
By the third, I chewed on paper. Cardboard. Rotten banana peels. Once, I found a chicken bone in a trash bin behind a diner and licked it until I tasted blood from my own tongue.
I slept with my back against walls. Ate what rats wouldn't. Ran when footsteps got too close.
But I was still just a kid.
And they caught me.
I was too slow that night. Too hungry. Too tired to run.
They grabbed me before I could scream.
They wore gold chains, smelled like sweat and smoke, and laughed when I begged.Tied my wrists. Kicked the breath out of my ribs. Took what little strength I had and shattered it beneath their boots.
They didn't just beat me. They broke me. They used me. Left pieces behind.
I stopped begging.
Stopped speaking.
Stopped existing.
I became hollow.
I smelled like piss. My pants were crusted with dirt. People saw me and turned away.
One woman crossed the street to avoid me. Another tossed a few coins at my feet like I was some dying animal.Another just shook her head and muttered, " Disgusting. "
Some glanced. Most didn't. They saw a boy too dirty to pity.
Nobody looked me in the eye.
Nobody asked my name.
Nobody helped.
Not one hand reached out. Not one soul asked, "Are you okay? "
Then someone did.
He found me outside a bus stop, slumped in a pool of rainwater.
"Hey, kid," he said, crouching down. "You need help?"
I didn't speak. Just nodded. Eyes wide, heart thudding.
He took me in. Gave me food. Warm clothes. A place to sleep.
He even smiled at me.
And for a moment, I thought—
Maybe this is what kindness feels like.
But it wasn't kindness.
It was control.
He kept me fed. Clean. He even washed my hair.
Then he asked for favors.
Then he told me I owed him.
Said, "You'll do what I say, or I'll throw you back to the dogs."
And I believed him.
So I did what he said.
Until I snapped.
Until I bit the hand that fed me poison and ran before he could finish his sentence.
That was the second betrayal.
And the last time I mistook cruelty for care.
______
I started coughing blood after the first week.
Couldn't sleep without shaking.
Couldn't stand without falling.
I remember one night—it was raining. My teeth wouldn't stop chattering. I crawled behind a dumpster, soaked to the bone. My lips cracked open. My throat was raw from screaming to no one.
And when I couldn't move anymore, I curled behind a dumpster.
My arms were too thin. My skin, blue with cold. And for the first time, I thought—
Maybe my father was right.
Maybe I was just weakness.
Maybe the world didn't forget me.
Maybe it just didn't want me.
So I laid there.
Waiting to die.
---
But death didn't come.
She did.