He first saw the world as bright spots of light. He raised his hand to rub them clear, but found them chained to the metal rod of the curtain holder. Why was everything so blurred? The boy squeezed his eyes shut and counted to five, opening them again. The bright spots vanished, but his vision remained blurry. He sniffed the air once, and a multitude of smells overwhelmed his senses. He could smell every little corner of the well-lit room. The mold on the walls, the spilled milk in front of his shoes, an empty cat litter, and the smell of water. Weird. He thought. The boy sniffed again, this time slowly, to take in the smell one by one, but that just made his nose sting and he sneezed loudly, rattling the chains around his hands and feet.
Suddenly, a red light above the metal door turned on. He concentrated on the blurred metallic door, which groaned open. A tall man walked inside, wearing shiny black shoes and dress pants. The boy struggled to raise his head. The man crouched down, coming face to face with him, but even then his eyes refused to make out the features of the man. Was he responsible for this? He thought. Where was he keeping him? The man said something. His lips moved, but he heard no sound. He couldn't listen to him. He couldn't hear.
“I can't hear you.” His voice cracked from dehydration. He barely spoke a full sentence. Was it always like this? He tried to remember his past, but his mind proved to be blank. Did they do this to him? He pulled the chains on his hands again and only winced from the pain. The skin around the cuffs was scratched as small drops of blood appeared. The man got up and turned his back to the boy. There was another man in a black biker helmet. They exchanged some words, and the man handed him something.
“Let me go, please let me go.” The boy begged in small, heaving breaths. The man crouched again and handed him a paper cup with water. He greedily took the cup and emptied it in a second. Meanwhile, the man was playing with a rectangular plastic box. He opened it and revealed a pair of plain, round glasses. He slowly reached his hands towards the boy and balanced the glasses neatly behind his ears. The boy suddenly gasped. He could see everything clearly now, the green-black walls, the cat litter. The man crouched in front of him again. He, too, was wearing square-shaped glasses. He was smiling.
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“Who are you?” the boy felt confident upon facing his enemy. The man simply patted his head affectionately, but all he could see was pity in his eyes. He got up. He said something, but the boy still couldn't hear. “Who are you?” he asked again, panic building inside him again. “Where am I?” The man didn't answer him, he simply started walking towards the door. “HELP ME. PLEASE HELP ME. DONT LEAVE ME ALONE. DONT LEAVE.” His cries weren't helpful; they just rebounded off the man’s ear. Suddenly, all the helpless feelings inside him turned into a hot white molten ball of rage. It grew inside him, turning his skin feverish, devouring his heart, his innocence, his memories. It grew and grew until it reflected on his face.
An image flashed in his mind. A memory, twisted and revolting, the boy gagged. He closed his eyes, and with one powerful pull, he broke free of the chain around his hands. The man turned around, surprised. The boy looked at his slender hands, twisting them slowly, the blood dripping on the floor. He grabbed the chains connecting to his feet and yanked them free. The man took out a syringe from his pocket. The boy stood up, supporting himself against the wall. His feet were numb, and he stumbled as he took his first steps toward the man. The man was shaking, sweat gathering on his nose. He feared him. The boy could smell it. Fear. It had the most delicious scent; it made his stomach growl from hunger. The man knew he couldn't overpower the boy, so he backed away toward the door.
He was muttering something, speaking. Was he begging? The boy thought, looking at the man’s expression. It felt nice to see someone else begging for a change. The boy was a few inches from the man, taller than him. He tilted his head and patted the man’s hair. “Where are you going, Father?” The man wasn't shocked. So he knew I’d remember him. He thought, but he didn't help me. The boy grabbed the man’s hair and pulled. He must have screamed from the pain, but the boy couldn't hear anything, which made it easier for him to slowly kill his dear old father.
The boy made a fist with his right hand, and without a second glance at the scared eyes, he jammed it straight into his father’s heart. His fist stayed there as he felt the last few beats. The boy counted backward. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. It took longer for the heart to give out. The smell of the blood was intoxicating. It brought blurred memories to him, and his head hurt from the sudden change in his body. With his other hand, he turned the doorknob, saving himself from the hell he was thrown into.