I remember it—how could I forget? The voice did not arrive with thunder or angels but as a whisper, a dusty whisper that crept into the marrow of my bones. It was not even outside of me; it was inside, as if my own despair had found words at last.
"What a dance the earth has made… the wicked feast, the dutiful starve. Obedience is rewarded with chains, laughter with bruises."
I sat in silence. To answer would have been absurd, but more absurd still was to pretend I had not been waiting for such words all my life.
You see, I had been born into a household where silence was worth more than bread, where every glance was a verdict. I was the invisible child, the necessary one, the one who carried water up three flights of stairs and bent over the stove until my ribs creaked. And for what? For the luxury of being despised without remark, as if contempt were a right my parents had purchased at my birth.
My brother—ah, golden brother!—he was loved, not because he earned it but because he existed correctly. His laughter filled the rooms like sunlight. My silence filled nothing, so it was called ingratitude.
The Mother's Gaze
My mother had a peculiar way of looking at me. She did not scream, rarely struck, but her eyes—that was enough. Her eyes did not see a son; they measured me like a crooked table leg, a defective object.
At meals I felt her gaze heavier than the bread. I would chew slowly, fearing that even my jaw betrayed me. And she would whisper—not in anger but in calm, rational tones:
"You should be like your brother. You are ungrateful, dissatisfied. Do you want to shame us?"
Do you understand? The cruelty was not in the words but in their moderation. To be condemned quietly, with such composure, is worse than being shouted at.
The Father's Judgment
If my mother dissected me, my father executed me. He could pass days in stern silence, as if nothing in the world could disturb him—until a trivial mistake shattered everything. A spilled cup, a wrong answer, even the way I entered the room… and then he struck, not merely with hand or word but with the full weight of his authority.
Once, when I was twelve, he looked at me as though at an insect and said:
"Ungrateful child. Do you think the world owes you? Even your existence was a mistake."
I laughed. Yes, I laughed—my first bitter laugh, sharp as broken glass. And in that laugh, I saw my fate: that in this house, in this life, I would always stand accused.
The Revelation
It was after one such evening—after their laughter at my expense had become unbearable—that the whisper grew into words.
"What a tragedy you are. What a marvel of wasted devotion. But rise, child of chains, for I will unmake your ruin. I will be your crown of fire."
Then I saw it—light in the air, unnatural, burning, like the last flare before blindness. And on it, words appeared, clean and merciless:
✨ WELCOME, DEAR PLAYER, TO THE SYSTEM. 📜 YOUR QUEST: LEARN TO BE SEEN.
To Be Seen
Seen? I had spent my life drowning in the eyes of others. My mother's eyes dissected me, my father's condemned me, the neighbor's daughter's mocked me with their false warmth. To be seen had been my torture, my crucifixion.
But the voice continued:
"Hell is not fire. Hell is the gaze. You will never escape it. Your parents' eyes. Your neighbors' eyes. Your own reflection. All of them will devour you. Unless… you endure."
I was struck still. Could it be true? Was my torment not the beatings, not the dismissals, but the gaze itself—the constant trial in which I was both prisoner and accused?
First Torture
The next day, I walked through the market. And then I noticed what I had never noticed before: every face turned. Not one, not two—every passerby watched me. The butcher, the beggar, the old woman with her basket—they all looked, weighed, measured.
For years I had believed myself invisible. But no—my invisibility had been another form of spectacle. Their silence had been a gaze more suffocating than words.
I felt stripped, exposed, judged in the dust of the street. I hurried into alleys, but even the windows had eyes. Even the stones watched.
Second Torture
That night, in my room, I turned to the mirror. I thought to find my face. Instead I saw their eyes—my parents', multiplied, infinite, blinking from the glass.
They whispered together:
"Ungrateful. Bastard. Mistake."
I struck the mirror. Shards scattered across the floor, but each fragment still contained an eye, and each eye blinked.
Third Torture
The voice returned, not cruel now but almost gentle:
"Count, child. When the eyes consume you, count to five. One… two… three… four… five. Then snap your fingers. It may break the chain."
I tried. At supper, under my mother's dissecting stare, I counted. One… two… three… four… five. I snapped.
Her form wavered—yes, wavered!—as though reality itself had trembled. But then she leaned closer, lips curling.
"What a foolish trick. Do you think a snap can free you?"
My father struck the table. My brother laughed. Their eyes dug into me like nails.
Descent
So this was my quest: to be seen, to endure the gaze. To carry the cross of their eyes forever.
And yet… something burned within me.
If the gaze is a prison, then perhaps I could learn to master it. To wield it. To turn their eyes against them.
That night, alone among the mirror-shards, I heard the whisper again:
"Good. You have understood the first truth: the gaze is a weapon. Wield it—or it will consume you."
And in the glass, countless eyes opened at once, staring with a hunger that promised eternity.