Chapter 1: Home of Shadows

BROKEN CHILDHOOD

Home should be a refuge, but mine was a prison of shadows and echoes of screams. An old, worn-down house, with gray walls and windows that seemed to weep on rainy days. The wood creaked with every step, as if the house itself trembled in fear. The air was thick with the rancid stench of liquor, tobacco, and despair. That place held no warmth of home, only the cold of a nightmare that didn't end at dawn.

Since I could remember, I understood that silence was my greatest shield. I learned to glide through the hallways like a ghost, to make no noise when breathing, to avoid drawing the wrong kind of attention. My father didn't need a reason to get angry—hatred lived within him like a perpetually hungry demon. And when the demon awoke, hell descended upon us.

Nights were the worst. Sometimes, the wind howled fiercely, rattling the windows and making my heart race. But the true terror lay in the sound of his staggering footsteps, the creak of the door as it opened, the murmur of his venom-laced voice before the real torment began. The house filled with muffled screams, choked pleas, and sobs that only the wind dared to carry.

I would stay in my corner, hugging my knees, clinging to my own body as if that could keep me from falling apart. Sometimes, I counted the seconds between each scream, like raindrops hitting the roof. Sometimes, I imagined myself in another place, in a world where love didn't hurt, where fear wasn't the only certainty. But those worlds only existed in my mind, and reality always found a way to drag me back.

The next morning, the house would be drenched in thick, heavy silence, like a cemetery after a storm. My mother moved with a vacant stare, like a soulless specter. My siblings tried to pretend everything was fine, playing with broken toys in a corner, forcing laughs that sounded like shattered glass. And me… I simply existed, trapped in an endless cycle of identical days, identical nights, a life that didn't belong to me.

Sometimes, I dreamed of freedom, of running without looking back, of feeling the sun on my skin without the weight of fear on my shoulders. But dreams were dangerous. Dreaming was a form of rebellion, and rebellion had a price I couldn't afford to pay.

I clung to the small details that reminded me I was still alive—the golden reflection of dawn in the cracks of the window, the whisper of the wind whistling through the house's gaps, the brief moments of calm before everything exploded again. But even the beauty of the world seemed to mock me. Because within those walls, beauty had no place.