"Michael, Grayson—you're just in time! Dinner's already on the table. Go ahead and start eating. I'll join you as soon as I'm done with these dishes," Mom said, giving us a quick glance before turning back to the sink.
"Hello, Clara," Michael said, walking up behind her. He turned her around with a gentle grip on her waist and kissed her—deeply. Too deeply, if you asked me.
He lifted her slightly, wrapping her legs around his waist, chuckling softly as he trailed kisses along her neck. Her breath hitched with every one.
But just as his hands started wandering—
"Michael, you stink. Go wash up," she said, still catching her breath.
"I will—after you go eat. Let me finish the dishes," he replied with a smug grin, already taking her place at the sink.
Mom sighed. "Fine. That would be a big help," she muttered, dropping from his arms.
She turned and walked toward the table, her fitted clothes leaving little to the imagination. My father, never one to miss a chance, gave her backside a firm slap on her way out. She jumped slightly, and he laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.
"Michael!" she said, startled.
"We'll finish this later," he said with a grin that only grew wider.
"I think I've lost my appetite. I'll eat dinner another time," I said, rising from my seat.
"Bring those piles of bones back here, young man!" Mom snapped, her voice suddenly serious. "You need to start eating properly. Don't you want to grow up to be strong and handsome like your father?"
"Hahaha! Listen to your mother, boy—though that could never happen," my father chimed in, always ready with a jab.
"No thanks. Holding a woman around my waist isn't exactly a priority right now," I said flatly, walking away.
"There's something seriously wrong with that boy," Michael muttered, drying the last dish.
"Well, there's going to be if you keep agitating him like that. He can obviously still hear you," Clara replied, concern creeping into her voice.
She was right. I could still hear them as I climbed the stairs.
My father may have already given up on me, and he's not wrong. Anyone with two eyes and a functioning brain can see it: something is wrong with me.
But my mother? She's still blinded. Whether it's by love or something she thinks is love, it doesn't matter.
Love is subjective.
Some parents beat their children and call it discipline, out of love. Others turn a blind eye, letting their kids learn from their mistakes. Some use entirely different methods of control, yet all of them claim their actions are born from love.
But love is none of these things.
To truly love is to be perfect—unbiased, untainted. And no one in this world is perfect. That's why love doesn't exist on Earth—only people using the word to justify their own self-interest.
Humans, by nature, are selfish. Whether they are doing good or evil. Motive decides that. Even acts of goodwill stem from self-interest. Just like cruelty.
There is no good. No evil. Only self-interest. And that... is human nature.
'What better way to expose that nature than to threaten her life?' I thought.
Once she faces the loss of what she values most, her supposed compassion will crumble. Morals will vanish. And what's left? Self-preservation. The purest form of human instinct.
'Tonight, I'll show her the enlightenment,' I thought as I walked into my room.
Lying in bed, I found my mind drifting—not to tonight, but to a time when I was still blind to all this. A time when I didn't know the truth of human nature. It feels so long ago now… yet the lessons etched into me then remain vivid, as if branded onto my soul.
This—this—is who I am now. What I was always meant to become.
But I wasn't always like this…
***
When I was five years old, my mother decided to continue her studies. She went to pursue her Master's degree.
As for my father, he wasn't always a farmer like his parents. My father used to be a pilot. He flew multiple missions for the US air force and was required to serve for eight years.
With both my parents' consistent absence, my father decided it would be best to leave me with his parents at their farm. My mother wasn't coming back for another 2 years, and two years were all my grandparents needed to get through to me.
Throughout the first month on the farm, I lived with the old bastards just fine. They seemed to be good people. They would occasionally give me treats, and made me feel special. The old hag even sang me lullabies to fall asleep. Her voice was old and dry, but back then, it was the thought that counted. Her lullabies quickly became something I looked forward to.
However, one fateful day, as if possessed, they burst into my room and dragged me out of my bed by the hand. It was the middle of the night. Naturally, I was still processing what was happening as they threw me in their basement.
It was dark there, and I was all alone. As soon as the reality of my situation sank in, I blaringly began to cry. I cried so loudly and for so long. Even after my head began to ache, I never stopped.
It was simply the only thing I knew how to do in such a situation. For the rest of the night i went on like this. I cried and slept, repeating this routine. My tears eventually ran dry. I was now just making loud, irritating noises.
The next day, in the afternoon, the old man finally came down to the basement and told me, "If you want to eat, you will have to stop crying."
He quickly left after saying this. I begged through the door for them to let me go, then helplessly opened the handle.
Surprisingly, it wasn't locked. I found them both standing five feet from me. The old man was holding a belt.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to open that door," he said.
With rejuvenated tears in my eyes, and mucus coming out of my nose, I ran towards my grandmother. However, just when I was within arm's reach, she kicked me in the stomach. I lay on the floor lamenting the pain, but I couldn't even do that.
Immediately after, the old man began beating me with his belt. In between his beatings, he would switch it up, so the belt buckle would strike me. This gave me bone fractures and some minor internal bleeding around my arms as I tried to protect my head. I quickly ran back to the basement and hid in the bathroom. Fortunately, they never came after me.
I cried for another 2 hours in that bathroom, as blood drooled out of my wounds and dried. I eventually lost the energy to cry any longer and finally fell asleep. I woke up not sure of the time nor how long I had slept.
As I peaked through the slightly open bathroom door, I surveyed the basement.
'It wasn't a dream,' I thought to myself.
Nothing had changed, except for the plate of food and a glass of water that had been placed by the door.
I quickly got on my knees and started to devour the meal before me. As I was eating, I heard the basement door open and the old man slowly came down the stairs.
"This is the last time that we will be feeding you. From now on, if you want to eat, you will kill!" he said, dropping a live rat on the floor.
The rat quickly ran into a crack in a dark corner and disappeared.
"What do you mean, kill?" I asked, hoping he didn't mean what I thought he meant.
"You kill, we'll cook." He replied with a grin.
I began to cry again, but then he quickly slapped my face. Clearly, he disliked the noise.
"This is life: You cannot depend on anyone else but yourself. Everyone is in this life for themselves. This is a lesson we have tried so hard to instill in Michael, but we've come to realize that we were too soft on him. By letting him make his own decisions, he went on a different path.
Only when you have felt the sweet, liberating embrace that is pain can you then decide how you will live. We should have forced this lesson on Michael. People are always out to look after no one but themselves. Remember that! I know it, my wife knows it, and soon, you'll come to know it as well. Embrace all that pain has to offer.
It may be too late for Michael, but we won't make the same mistake with you," he said with a powerful, but soar voice.
He had the most unusual, spine-chilling smile forming on his face as he said this.
"Now get yourself cleaned up, you stink. I will be bringing you a change of clothes every week," he said, walking up the stairs and shutting the door.
After that day, the old man would drop a live rat each day, alongside 2 glasses of water. I didn't want to kill a rat, in fact, I was afraid of them. For three days I was reluctant about it, but then my hunger got the best of me.
At my breaking point, I finally decided, for the first time, to hunt for my food. It's already difficult to catch a rat as it is, but in this basement, where the only entry for light was a tiny basement window, it was darn next to impossible. I had to wait and listen carefully to where the rats were.
For hours, I found myself running around in circles as my hunger grew even more painful. I quickly began to lose the little energy I had left to chase them down.
I lay on the floor feeling defeated. Tears began rolling down my face as I tried to think of what to do. It was still hard to believe the situation I was in and that my next meal would be a rat. I lay on the cold floor unable to see a way out of this.
After another long crying session, I finally sat on the cold floor and listened motionlessly.
In this basement there are multiple cracks where a rat could easily slip into. Occasionally, they would come out, but when they did, it was often too dark for me to even follow their movements. I'm not fast enough to catch them, so, my only option was to wait for them to come to me.
For a full hour, I waited for the perfect moment; for the perfect chance where I knew my next move would not go to waste. I was physically tired and mentally drained. I couldn't afford to be running around aimlessly.