Ville grew up in an extremely religious and conservative family, clinging to traditional values. For them, faith was everything.
"GAYS ARE ABOMINATIONS OF THE DEVIL!" His father's scream was thunder that made the walls tremble, embedding itself in Ville's mind like a commandment.
"How can a human being be gay, like the same gender? THAT IS THE DEVIL!" echoed his mother, her voice as sharp as his father's.
By age seven, Ville already carried an invisible burden. His subtle and different manner fueled the poisonous gossip of the neighbors:
"That boy is gay," one would say, as if announcing a plague. "He acts like a girl," said another, sentencing him.
"VILLE! YOU KNOW I DON'T LIKE DOING THIS, BUT IT'S FOR YOUR OWN GOOD!" His father's voice came laden with false piety, the worst form of cruelty.
"I know, Dad. I love you," Ville would reply, repeating the only phrase he knew could maintain the fragile family bond.
His parents called it "the cure." It was, in fact, a descent into hell: daily torture and beating sessions.
"GOD, TAKE THE DEMON OUT OF THIS BOY! REPEAT: 'I AM AN ABOMINATION'!"
"I am an abomination."
"LOUDER! FEEL THE SHAME!"
"I AM AN ABOMINATION! I DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO CONSIDER MYSELF A HUMAN BEING! I AM DESPICABLE TRASH! I DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO LIVE!"
Ville broke down in tears, but they were not noisy tears. They were silent tears, because he bit his mouth so hard that he tasted the metallic tang of his own blood. He didn't cry because of the physical pain of the beating, but because of the internal pain: self-hatred. He felt like the abomination they told him he was.
Accepting who he was felt like a stab in the heart of the parents he still loved, despite everything. This feeling was difficult to comprehend: despite the garbage the family treated him like, he loved them and didn't want to hurt them. It was the contradiction that destroyed him.
At school, he was an easy target, the perfect bait for childish cruelty.
"Ville, grab the trash for me," a girl said. When he bent down, she stepped on his hand, crushing his fingers against the floor.
"It hurts..." He spoke, but did not dare to scream.
In the classroom: "Gay! Gay, Ville! Ville is trash, an abomination!" The words were more destructive than the punches.
At sixteen. A rumor, even though false, spread that he had kissed another boy. The news reached his father.
Ville smelled the scent of tragedy before stepping onto the first stair. He ran to his room, but there was nowhere left to run. His father handed him a knife.
The first stab was not a blow of rage; it was a cold act of purification. The chilling shock pierced Ville's skin and soul.
"YOU KISSED A BOY?!" The father shouted, blinded by doctrine. The brutality was terrifying. The stabs came in quick succession, each echoing the sentence of years: You don't deserve to live.
Ville's body fell. Blood spread like a dark, irreversible puddle. The father went downstairs, returning to indifference.
"That's it..." Ville's thought was a thin thread. "I'm dying. Hatred, prejudice killed another one. How pathetic.
Dying because of hatred wasn't how I imagined my end. I... I never got to be myself! I WILL NOT ACCEPT THIS!"
At this point of total darkness, where life was draining away, Ville's hatred and despair became a call.
An Osmo appeared. It was not an animal; it was a cosmic pulsing entity, a mass of celestial colors that defied reality. It stared intently at Ville, and the pain of all the years of "the cure" converged into a single point. The Osmo PLUNGED into Ville's body, and the effect was immediate and VIOLENT.
His injuries did not heal; they REGRESSED in an instant, the wounds closing with an incandescent heat. Ville's nearly stopped heart began to pump with superhuman strength.
"I thought I had died..." Ville said, his voice hoarse, but with a new timbre, charged with electricity and power.
The noise called his father. He ran up the stairs, knife in hand.
"I thought I killed you, but now I'll make sure the job is done right."
The father advanced. But the old Ville was gone. In an instant that broke the speed of sound, Ville grabbed him by the neck with the brute strength of a newborn monster, and slammed him against the wall, cracking the plaster.
"Daddy. You are so mean... Do you want to die today, Daddy?"
Pure fear flooded the father's face.
"No, son! Daddy loves you! Daddy doesn't want to die today!"
Ville suffered years of physical and psychological abuse, which resulted in a disorder: two distinct personalities. The Ville who loved his parents and hated himself, and the Ville who accepted himself, but this version was evil. Ville spoke to himself, as if two different people.
"Daddy, do you love me? You love me... HE SAID HE LOVES ME! HE SAID HE LOVES ME!"
Cruel Ville laughed, a cold cackle, the Osmo's energy shining in his eyes:
"Haha! He doesn't love you. He's just afraid to die, you fool!"
"Son, who are you talking to?"
The "Evil Ville" completely took over.
"Oh, Daddy. Let me break your leg?" He pressed down on his father's legs, and the sound of bones snapping echoed, loud and final. "Daddy, do you like pain?"
"No!"
"Why, Daddy? I LOVED THE PAIN! Daddy, when will we do the cure again? Am I sick, Daddy? Tell me, Daddy! AM I SICK, DADDY?!"
"No, you are not sick." The father whispered.
"Die, Daddy."
Ville plunged his hand into his father's chest, tearing through flesh and ribs like crumpled paper, and ripped out his still-beating heart. The father's body slumped.
The power dissipated. "Good Ville" returned, falling to his knees, the heart on the floor.
"What have I done... Daddy! Daddy, I love you! Forgive me, Daddy! DADDY!" The mourning was the final pain of the victim.
"Not bad."
Ville turned, bathed in blood, his eyes fixed on the calm, dangerously composed man in the doorway.
"Who are you?" Ville asked, his voice oscillating between the victim and the monster.
"I am Yagato. And it's a pleasure, Ville. You finally became interesting."