"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 education and pursue a Master's degree.
As for my father, he hadn't always been a farmer like his parents. He used to be a pilot, flying multiple missions for the U.S. Air Force. His service required an eight-year commitment.
With both of them frequently absent, my father eventually decided it would be best to leave me in the care of his parents—on their old farm. My mother wouldn't be back for another two years, and as it turned out, two years were all my grandparents needed to leave a mark on me.
During my first month on the farm, life with the old folks was unsurprisingly normal. They seemed like good people. They gave me occasional treats and made me feel special in small, comforting ways. The old woman even sang me lullabies at night. Her voice was brittle and dry, but at that age, it was the thought that counted. I grew to cherish those lullabies.
Then, one night, everything changed.
As if possessed, they burst into my room and dragged me from bed by the arm. It was the dead of night. I was still groggy, struggling to understand what was happening, when they threw me into the basement.
It was pitch black down there, and I was alone. When the reality of my situation finally settled in, I started to cry aloud endlessly. I screamed until my throat burned and my head throbbed, but I didn't stop. Crying was the only thing I knew how to do.
That night passed in a cycle of sobbing and restless sleep. Over and over. Until finally, my tears dried up, and I was left making hoarse, grating noises in the dark.
The next afternoon, the old man finally came down to the basement. He stood in the doorway and said, "If you want to eat, you'll have to stop crying."
Then he turned and left.
I scrambled to the door, pounding on it, begging them to let me out. Out of desperation, I gripped the handle—and to my surprise, it turned. It hadn't been locked.
They were waiting for me. Standing just five feet away.
The old man held a belt in his hand.
"I was wondering how long it'd take you to open that door," he said.
Tears welled up again, fresh and hot, mixing with the snot dripping from my nose as I stumbled toward my grandmother. But just as I reached for her, she kicked me square in the stomach.
I collapsed, the wind knocked out of me. But I wasn't given a moment to catch my breath.
The old man started whipping me with the belt. At first, it was the leather. Then he turned it around so the metal buckle struck me. Each blow sent shocks of pain through my arms as I tried to shield my head. Somewhere in the chaos, bones cracked. I later learned I'd suffered fractures and minor internal bleeding.
I eventually broke free and fled back down into the basement. I hid myself in the basement's tiny bathroom. I locked the door and collapsed on the cold tile.
Fortunately, they didn't follow.
I cried for another two hours, bleeding and alone. My blood dried before my tears did. And finally, drained of everything, I passed out.
I didn't know how long I slept, but when I woke, the light was dim. I peeked out from the bathroom door, scanning the room like a trapped animal.
It wasn't a dream I realized, now fully awake.
My situation hadn't changed, except for the plate of food and glass of water sitting on the basement floor.
I dropped to my knees and crawled towards the food. I devoured the meal, trembling. As I ate, I heard the door creak open again. Footsteps echoed down the stairs.
The old man appeared once more.
"This is the last time we'll be feeding you," he said, tossing something onto the floor. It was a live rat. "If you want to eat… you'll kill," he added.
The rat darted into a crack in the far corner and vanished.
"What do you mean, kill?" I asked, praying he didn't mean what I thought.
"You kill, we cook," he said with a grin.
I started to cry again, but he slapped me hard. He clearly couldn't stand the noise.
"This is life," he snapped. "You can't depend on anyone but yourself. Everyone's out for their own self-interest. That's the truth.
"It's a lesson we tried so hard to teach Michael, but we were too soft. Gave him too much freedom, and look where that got him. Only through pain—sweet, liberating pain—can you learn how to live. We should've forced it on Michael, but it's not too late for you.
"People are selfish. All of them. You'll learn that soon enough. My wife knows it. I know it. And you—" he leaned in with a twisted smile, his voice cracking like dry wood, "—you will too. Embrace all that pain has to offer."
He stood there for a moment, smiling in that quiet, spine-chilling way that made my skin crawl.
"Now get yourself cleaned up. You stink. I'll bring you new clothes once a week," he added before climbing back up the stairs. He then closed the door behind him, and I was alone again.
From that day on, the old man dropped a live rat into the basement every morning, along with two glasses of water.
I didn't want to kill. I was terrified of rats. For three days, I refused to even try. But hunger is its own kind of torment.
By the fourth day, I reached my breaking point. I could no longer function on just water. My stomach felt like it was devouring itself. With shaking hands and hollow eyes, I decided for the first time, I would hunt my food.
Catching a rat is hard. Catching one in a nearly pitch-black basement, with a single cracked window letting in only slivers of light, was nearly impossible.
I waited. Listened. Every sound echoed. Every creak felt like a chance, but my body was weak. I was slow. Every attempt left me more exhausted. I chased shadows and whispers until I collapsed, curled up on the cold floor.
I cried again. Quiet, hopeless tears.
'How had it come to this?' I kept thinking.
I lay there, staring blankly, not seeing the walls around me—just the weight of it all pressing in. The hunger; the fear; the pain.
Eventually, the crying stopped. I had no more strength to waste. I sat up and listened. Still. Silent. Focused.
There were cracks everywhere, tiny holes that the rats used to slip in and out. They only emerged when it was quiet.
So I waited. Motionless. One hour passed. Maybe more.
I needed the perfect moment—one where I wouldn't miss, where my next move wouldn't be wasted. I couldn't afford it. I had no more strength to mess this up.