In a warm house, where the scent of fresh bread lingered and the last whispers of winter tapped at the windows, the boy "Saleem" sat on his old wooden chair, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the worn table. His eyes followed the long shadow of his father that stretched across the wall whenever he moved near the fireplace.
Father (with a warmth that masked worry):
— Why are you looking at me like that?... As if you're waiting for something.
Saleem opened his mouth to reply, but his mother's voice cut through the silence before he could begin:
— "Dinner's ready!"
His mother entered, carrying a steaming bowl of soup, and smiled at Saleem, a smile that made his eyes shine like a candle in the corner of the room. She needed no words; her presence alone reminded everyone that the world was still a good place.
Suddenly... everything stopped.
The mother's gaze froze as if trapped in an oil painting, and the father became a silent, motionless shadow. The sound of the fireplace crackling vanished, and even the wind outside the window ceased its wailing. Saleem felt that strange sensation crawling under his skin—a nameless fear, a shock as if his memory had split for a second.
Then...
The world overturned.
He suddenly found himself in a strange city, where the night was heavier than the back of the Earth. In the middle of the square, a raging crowd gathered around an old wooden platform. On top of it stood a man with bound hands—his face disturbingly familiar, yet Saleem couldn't recall him.
One of the attendees shouted:
— 'Let him take our sins with him!'
Before Saleem could scream, the man fell... and the crowd descended like locusts upon his remains. Convulsed hands clutching dry bread, dipping it into what remained, then devouring it savagely.
An old man with a wrinkled face whispered:
— 'The blood purifies... and the innocent body blesses those who eat it.'
But Saleem saw the truth: there was no innocence here, only an ancient hunger for salvation.
And at that moment... the boy appeared.
He was like my reflection in a broken mirror—the same wide eyes, the same slender build, even the way he breathed was like an echo of my own voice. I felt as if time had gone astray, and I remembered something... something dark I had buried deep in my memory.
— 'No... this is impossible.'
I whispered, swaying backward, as if the earth had opened beneath my feet.
— 'This is an illusion... it must be an illusion!'
I ran. I ran as if the fate of the whole world depended on my steps. I tried to prevent the boy from approaching the corpse... but my hands passed through his body like smoke. He was a ghost, and I... I was another ghost.
The scene slowed as if we were living it underwater. I saw the boy extend his hands, innocence tainted with horror shining in his eyes, and then... he grasped the head.
I walked behind the boy through the streets of that city I had never known.
He carried the head in his small hands, as if he held an entire world. His eyes were empty like abandoned windows, and his steps were slow like falling autumn leaves.
Then the head fell to the ground.
I wanted to scream, but my voice had turned into the noise of silence.
The boy knelt to pick up another head... but he suddenly stopped.
He began to cry.
His blood was not his own—but the blood of all those he failed to save.
I, too, couldn't save anyone.
Not even myself.
I covered my ears, but the laughter and whispers did not stop.
I didn't close my eyes.
I wanted to see the truth even if it killed me.
Then... everything disappeared.
And I found myself in front of an open book.
Its right half: a story I wrote to hide from the world.
Its left half: my broken memories... written in another hand.
I always escaped into stories.
But someone tore out the pages and wrote my ending in their place.
Was it me?
Or was it that crying boy who did it?
Or was the book itself trying to tell me:
'There are no endings... only loops we read repeatedly until we remember
Suddenly... I ran.
I ran between endless bookshelves, each book a prison for a memory.
I don't want to know... I don't want to remember...
All I want is a beautiful illusion I can live in.
I opened a book... then another...
And suddenly I cried.
I remembered everything.
This library... it's just my collapsed mind.
Every book is an unhealed wound.
Every story is a lie I told myself.
I was looking for beautiful memories...
For a warm home...
For a mother who loved me...
For a childhood I never lived.
But the truth was printed in black:
My mother didn't love me.
My father was waiting for something... something I'm afraid to even think about.
All this time...
I was writing stories to hide from an emotionally starved child living inside me.
But now...
All the books opened.
Memories bleed like blood from open wounds.
No escape anymore.
I open the books one after another...
I read and I cry.
I wonder: Is this real? Or is everything just an illusion I created to survive?
On some pages...
I had a beautiful sister who laughed with me in the rain.
But turning the page...
She transformed into a scream in a dark corner.
In other books...
I had a brother who held my hand and promised to protect me.
But the next words were:
"But he never protected me."
I closed all the books around me.
I want no more.
I took a new book... its pages blank.
And slowly... I began to write a beautiful story.
In it:
A warm home without ghosts.
A mother who loves me unconditionally.
A father who waits for nothing... except to see me happy.
But between the lines...
I know this is all an illusion.
Another loop... a circuit with no exit.
My happiness is an illusion... my dreams are illusions...
Even my marriage and children will be illusions.
Why am I doing this?
Because reality broke me more than I can bear.
Because the child within me was not created to live this pain.
Yes... I am my own enemy.
But I am also the only savior it has.
I stare at the blank page...
And I ask myself: "Why am I doing this?"
The truth emerges like glass shards:
My father didn't abandon me...
He replaced me.
With "himself" from the future.
That child who has the body of a boy but the mind of an adult...
That stranger who took my place in my family, in my memories, in my father's life.
Everyone knows this.
But no one talks about it.
My father did nothing...
Because my replacement was better than me.
More mature... stronger...
More deserving of love.
And that's natural, isn't it?
In the end... that replacement is "me" from some future.
But... in the body of a child who hasn't lived yet.
I will not create a good future.
Because even if I try...
That "better version" of me will come back and cast me out again.
"I choose a different hell...
The hell of fragile brokenness is better than the hell of harsh awareness.
I'll break a little... but I'll laugh in my illusions.
For in the end, what's the difference between a real tear and a fake laugh?
Even if I create a future... who will promise that I won't be replaced again?
I won't throw away my beautiful illusions... they at least don't echo my sobs.
Enough...
I'm tired of screaming.
Do you want to stay like this?
Crying on a blank page?
Waiting for death? change? a miracle?
None of them will come.
And it doesn't matter...
My attempts change nothing.
If I become stronger... my future self will be born stronger than me.
If I become smarter... a smarter replacement will be created.
This is my curse...
I...
I alone write my ending before I live it.
"Okay... I won't be human.
And I won't be a monster.
I'll create something else...
I'll twist my mind like a sharp, rusty wire.
I'll build a family of:
A father no one would wish for.
A mother a dog would be better than.
And a child (me) with a twisted mind who loves this torment.
Why?
Because hope is a curse.
This little monster living in my chest...
Whispers to me every night:
"Create your own beautiful hell...
And dwell in it forever."
And so...
I became the architect of my own ruin.
"This time... nothing will be an illusion.
I won't let anyone steal my truth, because they don't want it anyway.
I'll smile every time my father hits me.
I'll laugh every time my mother cries.
I'll be alone in my painful reality...
But it will be beautiful.
Because my twisted mind will transform:
The hitting into music.
The screaming into a song.
The blood into paint to draw my world.
I'm not running anymore...
I am living in the heart of the storm