This summer…
The hospital waiting room smelled faintly of antiseptic and flowers. Young Asher sat on the hard plastic chair, his small frame hunched, shoulders curling inward. He was overweight, short, and nervously tapping his shoes against the floor. Hours seemed like years.
Melissa McCall emerged from the emergency room, her face drawn, eyes apologetic.
"Asher..." she said gently, pausing for a moment.
She swallowed hard. "I'm… I'm sorry, Asher. Your mother… she didn't make it."
"Oh… I see," he murmured, voice flat. No tears came. She had been dead to him long ago, long before this moment.
...
Years before.
"You're useless!" his mother screamed, her voice sharp and bitter.
She struck him across the shoulder with her open hand. "You little pig! I should have chosen better at the orphanage! All you do is eat, eat, and eat! You're good for nothing!"
She kicked him in the stomach. The blows came harder now, driven not just by rage, but by grief and misplaced blame. His adoptive father had died protecting him from a truck, and instead of honoring that sacrifice, she held Asher responsible.
Asher took the blows silently, tears streaming down his eleven-year-old face. He huddled near the corner of the room, his report card lying just beside him: straight A's, except for one A-. That small mark, that minor imperfection, only fueled her fury.
He wished he could disappear.
---
The morning after her death, the wind blew cold through the quiet town. The streets were empty, and the funeral had no attendees besides him. Not surprising—she had no friends, and now her passing left only silence behind.
Asher sighed, trudging back home. He was alone, and soon the orphanage would come for him—he hadn't yet reached the age of maturity.
But when he reached his house, a small group of classmates lingered near the fence.
"Ohi, Ashboy," one of them sneered, putting a hand on his shoulder. The boy was tall for his age, broad-shouldered, and clearly the leader.
"I heard your mother died… I'm sorry," Troy added, feigning concern. But before Asher could respond, a sharp backhand hit his face, sending him stumbling. "You must be happy, huh? Someone less to beat you up?"
Another boy stepped forward, grinning cruelly. He kicked Asher in the stomach. "But don't worry," he said. "We'll cover her part too."
A third, smaller but scrappy kid joined in, slamming Asher against the wall.
The three of them began their ritual, punches and kicks raining down, shoving him into the dirt. Asher didn't fight back. He simply curled into himself, silently absorbing the pain.
Each strike burned not just his skin, but his heart, confirming what he already knew: he was alone.
Alone. He had been alone ever since his adoptive father's death. Every harsh word from his mother, every bruise, every insult—they had been constant reminders that he didn't belong.
Even now, as the boys jeered and laughed, he thought of Erica. She was a friend… maybe the only one he'd ever had who made him feel seen. But he had never been brave enough to ask her to spend time outside of school. He had let his one connection slip through his fingers.
The dirt beneath him was cold and unyielding. His tears mingled with the grime, streaking his cheeks, but he didn't care.
...
Asher stumbled home, his body aching from every blow. His shirt was torn, his face swollen, his knuckles raw from bracing against the ground. He didn't even bother wiping the blood from his nose. Step by step, he dragged himself inside, past the silent walls of the empty house.
He went straight to his room. No sign of life flickered in his eyes as he closed the door behind him. He moved with the quiet resolve of someone who had already decided.
Opening one of the drawers, he pulled out a length of rope—a noose he'd tied days ago. He had been thinking about it constantly, but now, after everything, he was sure. His hands moved automatically, fastening it tightly to the ceiling beam above his desk.
He climbed up on the desk and slipped the loop over his head. His breath trembled. For a moment, he hesitated. He exhaled once, long and heavy. Then he stepped off.
The rope snapped taut around his throat. Agony exploded in his chest as his air was cut off. He clawed at the rope but it didn't loosen. Black spots bloomed at the edges of his vision. Why was I even born? he thought dimly. Do I even have a purpose at all?
And then—something strange.
A warmth. Soft, subtle, curling around his neck like a protective hand between him and the rope. A strange energy pressed itself between his skin and the fibers cutting into him. It wasn't enough to free him completely, but it let just enough air through to keep him from fading entirely.
It felt warm. Comforting. Almost like being… home. A place he had never truly known.
The door burst open.
"Asher!"
A sharp crack rang out—the sound of a gunshot. The rope snapped above him. Asher dropped hard onto the floor, coughing violently as air surged back into his lungs.
Standing in the doorway was Sheriff Noah Stilinski, gun still raised, face pale with urgency. He crossed the room in an instant, kneeling beside Asher as he gasped and clutched at his neck.
Tears filled Asher's eyes—not just from the pain, but from confusion. Why? he thought weakly. Why would anyone save me?
...
A few days later, Asher was discharged from the hospital. The orphanage came to pick him up, but the moment he heard their name, his stomach clenched. That place had been another hell. The thought of returning there was unbearable.
Noah saw it. He saw everything in Asher's hollow eyes and trembling hands. He couldn't let him go back.
He immediately pleaded with Asher's neighbors, convincing them to take custody in name only, just enough to keep the boy out of the system. He offered Asher a room in his own house, but the boy refused. He didn't want pity.
Still, Noah visited regularly. He checked on him, brought food, tried to talk. He watched as Asher wasted away, losing weight until his ribs showed, his body like a shadow of itself. Every visit, Noah left more worried.
It wasn't until Asher finally snapped—kicking Noah out in a fit of rage—that the sheriff stopped coming. It had taken four times of being thrown out before he gave the boy the space he clearly thought he wanted.
But the damage had been done.
One month before school started again, Asher sat alone in his room. Empty. Starving. Weaker than he had ever been. And then… it came again.
That warmth.
Not soft this time, but like a fire flickering under his skin, spreading through his chest. It wasn't a voice, but a pull. A reason to stand up.
And for the first time in years, Asher did.
To be continued...
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How was this chapter? Liked it?
I hope it wasn't too dark or anything. I might have exaggerated.
Also, I'll be starting my own novel soon. It's inspired a bit by Teen Wolf, so it's a modern supernatural world, but it's a lot different really. I'll be writing it without AI's help, so the quality will be worse, but I hope readers will like it anyway.