Chapter One: The Birth of Emptiness

The night was moonless, as if the sky itself had conspired to conceal the horrors unfolding in the house at the end of Hollow Street. Inside, a boy named Ethan stood alone in the darkness of his bedroom, his small frame shivering not from cold but from the overwhelming dread that had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember. He was only twelve, but his eyes carried the weight of a soul far older, burdened by a life marred with cruelty and neglect.

Ethan’s parents were a looming presence even in their absence. His father, a brute of a man, had a temper that flared with the slightest provocation, and his mother was a shadow, disappearing into bottles of cheap liquor to escape her own misery. Love was a foreign concept in this household, replaced by a toxic mix of fear and resentment. Each day was a battle for survival, each night a respite that never lasted long enough.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight, something within Ethan had shifted, a subtle but irrevocable change. It had started earlier in the evening, when his father’s rage had exploded over a trivial matter—an unwashed dish, a misplaced tool. The specifics didn’t matter; the outcome was always the same. The blows had come hard and fast, but this time, as Ethan lay on the floor, his vision blurred and his body aching, a strange calmness enveloped him. It was as if the part of him that felt fear and pain had finally given up, surrendering to the void that had been growing inside him for years.

Hours later, he found himself standing in front of his parents’ bedroom door, a kitchen knife clutched tightly in his hand. He didn’t remember picking it up, but there it was, cool and heavy, a promise of something final. He pushed the door open, and the familiar smell of stale alcohol and sweat hit him. His father’s snoring was a low rumble, a monstrous sound that had haunted Ethan’s nightmares. His mother lay beside him, a barely visible lump under the blankets.

Ethan moved silently, his bare feet barely making a sound on the worn carpet. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum of impending doom. He approached his father first, staring down at the man who had caused him so much pain. The anger that usually accompanied these thoughts was absent, replaced by a hollow indifference. His appearance was a haunting reflection of his internal turmoil—hair streaked with stark contrasts of white and black, eyes as red as rubies, and skin as pale as a ghost. His father’s eyes snapped open just as the knife plunged into his chest.

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The knife sank deep, the blade tearing through flesh and muscle with a sickening ease. A wet, sucking sound filled the room as Ethan twisted the blade, the coppery scent of blood mingling with the stench of alcohol. His father’s eyes widened, a mixture of pain and disbelief flashing across his face. “E-Ethan?” he croaked, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

Ethan watched the light fade from those eyes without a flicker of emotion. It was as if he were an observer in someone else’s life, disconnected and numb. He whispered, “You always said I was good for nothing. Guess you were wrong.”

His mother woke with a start, her bleary eyes widening in terror as she took in the scene before her. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body paralyzed with shock.

“Ethan, what are you doing?” she finally managed to scream, her voice slurred from the alcohol.

Ethan turned to her, and for a brief moment, something like hesitation flickered in his mind. But it was gone as quickly as it had come. He stepped forward, the knife finding its mark with an ease that should have disturbed him, but didn’t. Her screams were short-lived, ending in a choking silence as the blade sliced through her throat, the sound of tearing flesh and gurgling breaths filling the room.

“No, Ethan, please!” she managed to plead, but her words were cut off by the final, fatal thrust. Blood spurted from the wound, splattering across Ethan’s face and the bed. “Goodnight, Mother,” Ethan muttered, his voice devoid of emotion. “You’ll sleep better this way.”

Ethan stood over their bodies, the knife slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor. The house was silent now, a stark contrast to the violence that had just occurred. He expected to feel something—guilt, sorrow, relief—but there was nothing. He was an empty shell, a vessel drained of all emotion. The boy who had once been capable of feeling was gone, replaced by something cold and unrecognizable.

He walked to the bathroom, his movements slow and deliberate, like a specter haunting its own home. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was his, but the eyes were those of a stranger. Lifeless and dark, they reflected a void that could never be filled. He washed the blood from his hands, watching the crimson water swirl down the drain. It felt almost ritualistic, a cleansing that went beyond the physical.

Ethan returned to his bedroom, curling up on the bed and staring at the ceiling. He waited for sleep to take him, knowing that when morning came, the world would be irrevocably changed. There would be questions, investigations, and whispers of horror from the neighbors. But none of that mattered. The boy who had lived through so much pain was no more. In his place was someone—something—else, born from the ashes of a broken childhood.

As the first light of dawn crept through the window, Ethan closed his eyes. The birth of emptiness was complete, and in the silent aftermath, he found a strange sense of peace.