(Ten Years Earlier)
The bathroom smelled of disinfectant and rust.
Water dripped steadily from a broken urination tub, spreading across the tiled floor in thin, uneven streams. The tiles were cracked, stained by years of neglect—and by something darker still.
A boy lay on his side near the wall.
He was lean, almost fragile in build, his school uniform soaked through at the shoulder and knee. One sleeve was torn. Bruises mottled his arms and legs in deep shades of purple and blue. A thin line of blood traced down from his brow, drying against his cheek. His lip was split.
He did not move.
The final bell rang.
Its sharp echo tore through the building—signaling the end of class, the beginning of freedom for everyone else.
The sound reached the bathroom a moment later, dulled by walls and distance.
The boy stirred.
His eyelids fluttered. A shallow breath dragged in through his nose. Pain registered—not suddenly, not sharply—but like something familiar returning to its place.
He pushed himself up slowly, one hand braced against the wall.
His leg buckled.
He steadied himself without sound.
At the wash basin, he turned the tap. Cold water rushed out, splashing against porcelain chipped at the edges. He cupped it in his hands and brought it to his face.
Once.
Twice.
Blood diluted and ran down the drain.
He straightened and looked at himself in the mirror.
The reflection stared back calmly.
No anger.
No hatred.
No self-pity.
Just recognition.
He adjusted his collar. Smoothed his hair with wet fingers. Pressed a tissue briefly against his brow until the bleeding stopped.
Footsteps passed outside. Voices laughed. Lockers slammed. Bags hit shoulders.
He waited.
When the corridor finally fell quiet, he bent down and picked up his books from the floor near the stall door. One cover was creased. Another was smeared with dirt.
He wiped them clean as best he could.
Then he stepped out of the bathroom.
The hallway was empty.
His footsteps echoed faintly as he walked toward the exit, favoring one leg. Each step sent a dull ache through his knee, but his pace never changed.
Outside, the afternoon sun felt distant.
Students streamed away in groups—talking, shouting, planning their evenings. No one looked at him. No one needed to.
He turned and walked alone toward the road leading home.
By the time he reached the small house at the edge of the neighborhood, the pain had settled into something manageable.
His mother was in the kitchen.
She looked up when he entered, her expression tightening for just a fraction of a second before smoothing itself out.
"Silvestor, you're late," she said.
"Extra class," he replied.
She nodded.
Nothing more was asked.
Nothing more needed to be said.
His father was not there.
The space he should have occupied remained empty—silent proof of a crime that had never been his to commit.
The boy went to his room, placed his books neatly on the table, and sat down.
Took a long breath in and out.
Then boy stood still for a moment.
He reached up and unbuttoned his shirt.
One button at a time.
He opened the drawer of his study table and took out a small wooden block, wrapped carefully in cloth. It was crude—self-made. Smoothed by repeated use. He unwrapped it, placed it between his teeth, and bit down hard.
Only then did he continue.
He slid the uniform shirt off his shoulders.
The fabric peeled away slowly, catching where it had dried.
Darkened blood clung to the cloth at his shoulder, stiff and cracked. As the shirt came free, his breath hitched—but no sound escaped. His jaw tightened around the wood.
Beneath it, his white sleeveless undershirt was torn, the fabric stretched thin and useless. He pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor.
Old bruises surfaced beneath the light.
Some yellowed.
Some fading.
Some fresh enough to ache without being touched.
They overlapped in patterns too familiar to count.
He reached for a towel and walked into the bathroom.
The door closed.
The shower turned on.
Cold water struck first—sharp, unforgiving—then slowly warmed. As it ran over his shoulders and back, his body tensed, muscles locking against the sting.
His hands pressed against the tiled wall.
The wooden block remained clenched between his teeth.
A low sound escaped him despite his effort—not a cry, not a sob. Just a strained breath forced through pain that refused to be silent.
Water washed over blood, sweat, and dirt, carrying it all down the drain.
He stayed there longer than necessary.
When the sounds finally faded, only the steady rhythm of the shower remained.
He came out of the bathroom without drying himself.
Water clung to his hair and shoulders, trailing down his back in slow lines. A towel was wrapped around his waist, knotted tight enough to stay in place.
The bruises were clearer now.
Heat from the shower had darkened them—blues deepened into purple, yellow stains flared against pale skin. Only a few places remained untouched. The rest of his upper body bore marks layered over older ones, some fading, some newly earned.
The wooden block was still clenched between his teeth.
He went back to the study table and pulled the drawer open.
It slid out farther than before.
This drawer was meant for notebooks and reference books. Instead, it was filled with first-aid supplies—sprays, gauze, antiseptic wipes. Syringes in sealed packets. Strips of pills in different colors, carefully sorted.
He took out the first-aid spray.
Checked the label.
12/12/2028.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Four more months to go," he said around the wooden block.
The cap came off.
He took a breath—deep, steady—and sprayed.
Not carefully.
Not sparingly.
The mist spread across his chest and shoulders like cold fire.
His eyes shut tight. Tears forced their way out, slipping down his cheeks without sound. His jaw locked harder around the wood as his body tensed, muscles drawing inward against the sting.
He bent forward and turned the spray downward, aiming beneath the towel.
His hand shook.
The spray hissed.
Pain tore through him, sharp and immediate. His legs buckled. He collapsed backward onto the bed, chest heaving, breath breaking into strained fragments that never quite became a cry.
He lay there until the trembling passed.
Then he dressed.
Loose clothes. Long sleeves. Fabric chosen deliberately—enough to hide everything. Enough not to worry his mother.
When he stepped out of the room, she was already dressed to leave.
Dinner was waiting on the table. Steam still rose from the porridge and omelette.
She had been careful not to let it cool.
He paused by the window.
A car was parked outside.
Not the same one as yesterday.
It never was.
Each night, someone different came to pick her up.
Whatever her work was, she always returned early enough to cook for him. Always remembered that much.
And in his current state, he had no right to question her.
I have my own secrets, he thought.
What right do I have to demand hers?
Another secret joined them.
He carried the porridge and omelette to the counter and poured them into the juicer. The machine hummed briefly.
He drank it quickly.
Swallowing was hard. It always was.
He washed the cup and plate, set them neatly aside, and returned to his room.
The school uniform hung where it always did.
Looking at it, something stirred in him—hot, sharp, immediately smothered.
Anger.
Not rage.
Not rebellion.
A small, useless anger with nowhere to go.
He opened the second drawer and took out strips of cloth, wrapping them tightly around both wrists.
Then he left the house.
A short walk away stood a lonely tree by the roadside.
He stopped in front of it and raised his fists.
The first punch landed dully.
Then another.
And another.
He struck until his breathing steadied, until the anger thinned into something manageable. The bark bore scars—small pits and dents scattered across its surface.
Deposits.
Proof that this, too, was routine.
When he was done, he lowered his hands and stood quietly beneath the tree.
The tree did not resist anymore.
Its bark was worn smooth in places, hollowed by repetition. It stood there as it always did—silent, patient, tired of the same violence offered to it day after day.
His hands trembled as he lowered them.
Not from anger.
From exhaustion.
He turned and walked back home, steps slow, body heavy. The stiffness crept in quickly, spreading through his arms and shoulders, settling deep into his joints.
In his room, he dropped to the floor and began push-ups.
No counting.
No rhythm.
Just movement.
His arms bent and straightened until strength thinned into reflex, until effort became mechanical. Sweat soaked into the floor beneath him. His breathing grew uneven, then shallow, then steady again.
Time passed.
When he finally stopped, an hour had gone.
He stood, washed his hands, and stepped out of the room. Before leaving the house, he locked the main door as usual. The spare key was always with his mother.
It had always been that way.
He sat on a chair and switched on the fan.
The fan wheezed as it turned, its uneven hum filling the room. The sound was familiar. Comforting in its own way.
He lay back and closed his eyes.
Pain settled in.
Sleep crept closer.
Then his body tightened.
The urge came suddenly.
He clenched his jaw.
This was the hardest part.
He forced himself to stand, legs spread wider than normal, movements stiff, awkward—like a machine pushed beyond its tolerance. Each step sent sharp reminders through him.
Finally, it passed.
He leaned against the wall, breathing slowly until the pain dulled again.
Still moving on instinct, he walked back to the drawer and took out a sleeping pill. Swallowed it dry.
Then he climbed out through the window.
The roof was cool beneath his feet.
He sat there quietly and looked up.
The moon hung alone in the sky.
He imagined it was like him—watching, distant, untouched by anything below.
He wanted to speak.
To say something.
Anything.
But no words came.
They never did.
After a while, he climbed back inside.
On his desk lay a small notebook—pages uneven, edges torn and sewn back together with careful hands.
If it weren't for her, he thought, these pages would still be scattered.
He began copying notes into it, writing slowly, carefully, until his vision blurred.
At some point, the pen slipped from his fingers.
His head lowered.
Sleep took him where pain could no longer follow.