"You bitch! How dare you question me!" The man roars, his voice tearing through the walls like a beast unleashed. He swings his fist, and my mother crumples to the ground, blood dripping from her split lip. I shrink back into the corner, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. She's down again, just like always, taking blow after blow while I stay hidden, useless and shaking.

I want to help. I want to do something. But I can't. Not after last time. The memory is still fresh—his fists, his boots, the way I couldn't even cry anymore when it was over. I was beaten so badly I couldn't stand for days. And then they locked me up in a cold, dark room, no food, no light, nothing but pain and silence.

That night, lying on the hard floor, bruised and broken, I asked myself, why? Why should I suffer for her? For someone who never cared for me, who brought me into this cursed world only to abandon me to misery? I don't love her. I don't even like her. I'm Saevus, ten years old, and I hate her.

"Kid!" the man snarls, his bloodshot eyes snapping to me. "Get over here!" He's got her pinned under his boot, grinding her into the dirt like trash.

"Leave him alone!" my mother screams, her voice cracked and desperate. She tries to shield me, her frail body trembling as she struggles to rise. But all that does is make him angrier. He kicks her in the ribs, hard. She gasps, curling into herself.

"Shut up, you stupid whore!" he spits. Then his eyes land on me again. "I said, get over here!"

I don't move at first. My legs won't obey. I know what's coming. I know it won't stop until he's had his fill. Slowly, I step forward, each step heavier than the last. My legs shake so bad it feels like they'll give out any second. But I go. Because I have no choice.

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As soon as I'm within reach, he punches me in the stomach, hard. The air rushes out of me, and I fall to my knees, gasping, clutching my middle. But he's not done. Oh no, he's never done.

"You dogs," he sneers, his foul breath reeking of cheap booze. "I give you a roof, food, and this is how you repay me?"

Food? I want to laugh. What food? The scraps he throws at us? The stale bread? The leftovers he tosses on the floor, making us crawl like animals? My stomach twists in hunger, but I don't make a sound. I know better.

He grabs my mother by the hair, yanking her up like a rag doll. Her head snaps back, her face bloody and swollen, one eye already shut tight. He slams her into the floor with a sickening crack. She lets out a low, broken scream, barely louder than a whimper.

But it's not enough for him. It's never enough. He punches her again, and again, and again. Her blood splatters on the floor, on the walls, on me. She coughs, choking, spitting blood as he keeps hitting her in the stomach, the ribs, the chest—anywhere he knows it'll hurt the most.

She begs him to stop, voice hoarse and trembling. "Please... please, no more..."

Her words mean nothing. They only make him angrier. His fists don't stop. They keep crashing down on her like hammers.

I watch it all. Every single second of it. And I feel... nothing. Nothing at all. I should care, shouldn't I? I should feel something—anger, sadness, fear. But I don't. I can't. I've been empty for so long, I don't even know what feeling is anymore.

Her screams fade into silence. She's still alive—I can see her chest barely rising and falling. But she looks like a corpse. Bloody, broken, lifeless.

The man spits on her and turns to me. "Clean this mess up, boy," he snarls before stumbling out, probably to drink more.

I kneel beside her, but I don't touch her. I just stare. I hate her. I hate this life. I hate everything.

Kids in town call me names, throw rocks at me, shove me into the mud. Adults sneer, whisper behind my back, their eyes full of disgust. Why? Because I'm hers. Because I don't even know who my father is. Would I want to? No. What kind of man would let this happen?

I sit there, staring at her bloodied face, and wonder if she'll wake up. And if she does, will anything change? No. It never does.