Hell's One: Apologize To Money (Past Arc)

Note: This chapter is set in the past and doesn't center on the current timeline of the story. Reading this chapter isn't mandatory for understanding the story, but it would enhance the overall experience. The choice is yours. (Canon)

I am Zane Orion, and this is the story of how I turned out to be what I truly am. 

That being an absolute abomination.

.................

I glance at Emma and say, "Let's go to the backyard. My mother isn't feeling well. She's sick."

I may question her claim about falling ill, but deep down, I sense her mental pain.

And as much as it pains me to admit it, I despise her.

.......................................................................

Days go on and on.

As time passes, the situation becomes more and more distressing.

Though I may be struggling, a hint of empathy remains.

Dad still hasn't returned, and I can't fathom why.

The house feels like a living nightmare, much like Hell.

I can't even bring myself to go near it.

The backyard is my sole sanctuary, even though acknowledging it hurts, and it hurts bad.

And so, Emma and I stand there, our gazes fixed upon the tree situated right in the center of our backyard.

It was a Cork Oak tree.

I recall etching a spiral-like pattern into the bark of the tree when I was younger, carving my initial within that very design.

"Here's the tree I've been talking about for the past few nights. Believe it or not, it's the only innocent presence in this household," I explain.

"It's just a tree," Emma responds.

I'm taken aback, shooting her a piercing look.

"This... this isn't just any tree. You see, I've given this tree a name myself. I've christened it the 'Tree of Solidarity,' which, in hindsight, might sound rather generic, but it serves its purpose," I insist. "And it bears my signature. Technically, it's mine. I've essentially trademarked it with my initial."

Emma sighs deeply.

"Did you really bring me here just to show me some tree with a 'Z' on it?" she asks.

I step closer to her, gently cupping her face in my hands.

"Listen, Emma. The future of this place looks bleak, like pitch-black dark. So, I need to ask you: for both our sakes, could you carve your initial into it too? I believe it could serve as a good luck charm," I plead.

...

"No," she simply says, pulling away from my touch. "And let go of me."

"Sorry," I mutter, releasing her. "But you have to recognize that this place isn't lasting any longer. I believe we're destined for somewhere else, somewhere better. So, what harm is there in carving your initial? It's a way for us to understand each other better."

She gives me an odd look, almost as if she's recoiling.

"This is your home, Zane," Emma insists.

"And I hate it! I truly do. I just want to escape, okay?" I raise my voice in frustration. "I think it's time for a kid like me to have a chance at a normal life for once."

An uneasy silence falls between us, broken only by Emma's sigh.

"Let's go back and check on your mother. She hasn't been doing well lately," Emma suggests.

As we make our way home, I realize the selfishness and ignorance behind my words.

I've lived well.

I've eaten well.

I've even slept well.

I remember when I first met Emma; she looked malnourished and frail, as delicate as a fingernail.

Some people live better than others, and yet I fail to acknowledge that.

My words and thoughts lack coherence, and it has never made sense to me.

I'm an ignorant hypocrite who can't even bother to look around and see the struggles of those near me.

I s-slide open the glass back door and find my mother holding a brick in her hands.

"Mom, what are you holding?" I inquire.

"This? Oh, it's nothing. I just found it outside, a-a-and I think it fell off the roof. I'll call someone to come and repair it," she replies, her voice unsteady.

"Are you sure you're okay, Mom? You don't look well," I express concern.

My mother's appearance frightens me.

The once-beautiful woman I knew is now unrecognizable, as if she's transformed into some other human; yet, I know her heart doesn't belong to one whatsoever.

I'll go along with it and play my part; it's not like she'll harm me.

I know she despises me, but she could never bring harm to a child. I've learned that much.

It's the inherent goodness of a mother's touch; they do no harm.

My mother rises from her chair and hurries upstairs.

Did she perhaps intend to bash my head in with that brick?

No, that would contradict what I just said.

"You saw that, didn't you?" Emma interjects.

"What do you mean?" I reply.

"There was a small note wrapped around that brick. It's a piece of paper with something written on it," Emma explains.

Damn.

Maybe she really is insisting on harming us all.

I wouldn't blame her; she's been through quite a lot recently.

As I stand there lost in thought, Emma's voice breaks through, "Look over here."

She's pointing at a cracked window inside the house.

"That wasn't cracked before. It's from that brick," I say.

That brick, and that present...

They must mean something, but I know their origins are interconnected.

Upstairs Within My Mother's Room...

My mother walks up to her phone and opens up the note, her hands trembling as she stares at the digits. She hesitates before tapping the number into the calling app, her breath catching in her throat.

"I don't want to do this, please," my mother's voice quivers, tears streaming down her face as she struggles with the weight of her decision.

Rain pounds against the windowpanes, a relentless downpour mirroring the storm raging within her. Each droplet echoes her anguish, each clap of thunder punctuating her fear.

She looks outside the window, but there isn't really any rain whatsoever.

It's the storm within her distraught heart and soul.

In a sudden burst of desperation, she lunges at the wall, her fists pounding against it with a primal intensity. The sound reverberates through the room, a symphony of pain and desperation.

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

Blood drips from her battered knuckles, mingling with the tears on the floor. Each drop a testament to the sacrifice she's willing to make for her children, a sacrifice that threatens to consume her.

The wall bears the scars of her torment, a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil. It stands as a silent witness to her agony, bearing witness to the depths of her despair.

With trembling hands, she raises her phone once more, dialing the number scrawled on the note. Each digit a step closer to her fate, each ring a tolling bell signaling the end of her innocence.

Finally, a voice crackles through the line, its tone cold and unforgiving.

"Your response came a little sooner than expected. Where has your motherhood gone?" the voice taunts, its words a dagger to her heart.

Back Downstairs...

Emma and I are startled by the thunderous bashes echoing from downstairs.

Each strike reverberates like a sledgehammer against the walls.

"What the hell was that?!" Emma demands.

"It's from upstairs. It must be Mom," I reply, a knot of fear tightening in my chest. "C'mon, let's check it out. Maybe she collapsed or something."

Every step.

Every heartbeat.

Mom, please.

You wouldn't hurt us, would you?

As we approach the staircase, a harrowing sight awaits us - my mother, her face streaked with tears, descending slowly with a demeanor shattered by sorrow.

I've never seen her like this.

I've never seen waterfalls in my life; are these it?

"Mom, what's wrong?" I ask, my voice trembling with concern.

She reaches us and enfolds us in a desperate hug.

"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. Oh, I'm so sorry," she utters repeatedly between sobs. "To think I just did what I did. I'm sorry."

I break free from her embrace, my heart pounding with dread as I ascend the stairs to confront the source of her anguish.

"No, please, don't look. Please!" my mother's voice trails behind me, choked with tears.

In the room, the scene is chilling - blood stains on the walls and floor.

I approach the bedside cabinet, where a note lies alongside her phone and the brick rests ominously on her bed.

The note says the following:

Dear Isabella,

We realize that your main financial means (your husband) has gone to a better place now. 

You were amidst our crossfire, and so we've got an offer:

+39 02 1234567 ------> 20,000 Euros

Give me back Emma, and that boy of yours along with him, and the money's yours.

Besides, I'd give them a better home than you'd ever give them.

Sincerely, Anonymous

...

My own mother is selling me for nothing but a measly sum of money.

"You're selling us?" I stammer, my entire body trembling with shock and fear.

"P-please, this is for your own good," my mother pleads, her words choked with tears. "I need this."

"There is no good for us here. Those people you're selling us to—are they the same ones who took Dad? Where's the good in that?!" I shout, my voice echoing with desperation.

My mother collapses to her knees, revealing Emma standing behind her.

Her expression is vacant, her soul drained.

Emma stares blankly at the ceiling, her body tensed with fear.

"No, not again. Why?" Emma's voice cracks, her left eye twitching with nervousness.

"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry," my mother whispers brokenly.

"Shut up!" I snap at her, my anger boiling over. "You have no right to speak. What's the use of apologizing if we're worth nothing more than a handful of Euros? Do you apologize to money?"

Emma flees downstairs, her hand covering her face in despair.

I shove past my mother, determined to chase after Emma and protect her from whatever horrors await.

As I reach the ground floor, I run to quickly catch Emma in a hug.

"No, let go of me. Why would I live if I'm going back there? I don't want to go back", Emma says.

"We're going to be okay. I'll always be with you, through every trial and obstacle. We're basically the same, and I won't let you go", I say. "I need you, Emma. You're the first person that I've ever met that I've been able to actually look at and think that they're a semi-decent person".

I need her.

Even if she may not need me, I need her, and I'll always protect her, no matter what.

Not long after, a man wearing a ski mask bursts through the house's main door.

My mother descends the stairs to see what's happening.

The man turns to my mother and sneers, "Here's the money, you cheap whore," before tossing it into the air.

Money rains down around us.

I've always dreamed of a moment like this, but now I despise greed more than ever before.

There's a reason it's considered one of the seven deadly sins, I suppose.

Two other masked men approach us and forcefully usher us into a waiting white van parked outside the house.

Emma struggles and cries out, "No, please! Let go of me!"

I, however, make no attempt to resist. Our capture feels inevitable, and any effort to free ourselves now would be utterly futile.

And so, we're confined in this white van, the doors locking behind us.

It's dark inside, but for once, I find peace in the dark.

It's comforting, almost warm.

I can't say the same for Emma, though.

The haunted look in her eyes speaks volumes, a silent testament to the horrors she endured before.

I can only imagine the agony she must have faced, the nightmares she's still trying to outrun.

As I glance at her trembling form, I can't help but feel a surge of gratitude that I'm forced to share in this nightmare with her.

I guess, I'm happy I'm dragged along.

Not too long after our capture...

"Wake up, you two," the driver's voice cuts through the silence.

I didn't fall asleep, but Emma succumbed to exhaustion and fear, finding solace in sleep on my lap.

"Wake up, Emma," I gently nudge her, hoping to rouse her from her troubled slumber.

The driver's eyes narrow as he glances back at us. "You're younger than her. She's 15 and you're 12. Quit catering to her like she's your child."

She's... 15?

She certainly looks younger. Now, the situation feels even more awkward.

The van's doors swing open, revealing a man with a wide smile and long hair obscuring his features.

We're parked in a garage, likely belonging to the gang's main base.

"Welcome! You're better off here, Emma. Oh, and the new kid too, I guess," the man says.

"Who are you?" I demand.

"The name's Sanders. I've heard about your bitch of a mother, and I've decided to take you both under my wing. You should thank your father for that," Sanders declares. "I'll raise you, and you'll belong to me, understood?"

He extends his hand, expecting a handshake.

I don't trust this man. He's likely responsible for Emma's suffering, for the trauma she's endured.

I refuse to shake his hand.

"I may be young, but I'm not naive. I won't shake hands with someone I don't trust," I retort, my voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Sanders's smile falters, replaced by a hint of frustration. "If you're worried about the one who hurt Emma before she escaped, then you're mistaken. I took care of that. I won't hurt you. I'll raise you as my own. I've lived a long life without children. So, have I convinced you?"

I've been through so much.

Rain, pain, blood... all leading me to this moment.

I was born from chaos, branded by fate as nothing but poison. But for the first time, I see a glimmer of hope, a chance for redemption.

"Save me, Sanders," I silently plead.

With a deep breath, I reach out and shake his hand.

"May destiny guide us well," Sanders says with a grin.

In that moment, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders.

I am finally saved...