Hell on Earth?
Stories often begin with “once upon a time”. This is not one of those stories. This is not a tale of destiny, nor of a child chosen by fate. It is not a story born from prophecy or blessing. It is a story born from fear…and from a choice. The world celebrates heroes for their strength. It builds statues in their honor and speaks their names with admiration. But it rarely asks what they endured before they were called “hero.” It rarely asks what they lost…or what they were forced to become. Before the title. Before the flames. Before the name “Ignitor” there was only a boy. And sometimes, the birth of a hero looks no different from the birth of a demon.
“Being afraid is nothing to be ashamed of. But doing nothing is”
Chapter 0 :Hell on Earth?
He could not sleep. The boy pressed his thin body against the cold sheets, still wearing his dirty, sweat-stained clothes. The fabric clung to him, stiff with dried tears and the smell of a day that never truly ended. His breath rose in pale clouds above his face. The room was so cold it felt as though the walls themselves rejected warmth. He could not stop trembling. Was it the cold? Was it the hunger? He could not remember the last time he had eaten until he felt full. Hunger had stopped feeling sharp long ago. Now it was simply there, a hollow companion that never left. Or was it fear? From the next room came the familiar sound. A dull thud. A sharp crack. Then the muffled cry of a woman trying not to cry too loudly
His mother. Her small frame would shudder beneath each cruel strike, as though the world itself had turned against her. The boy squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed his hands against his ears until they hurt. He knew those sounds. He knew the rhythm. He knew when the shouting would rise… and when it would stop. For how long had this been going on? The memories blurred together. Days were not measured in sunlight or laughter but in bruises. One could almost be forgiven for growing accustomed to it. After all, this had become routine. A father coming home, a bottle, a voice raised, a body falling. Why not stop him? Why not fight? The boy had tried. He had thrown himself between them once, twice, more times than he could count. Each attempt had ended the same way: his small body lifted as if it weighed nothing, then slammed against wood or wall. His ribs had learned the shape of the floor. His cheek still carried the faint yellowing memory of a fist far too large. He had already stood at death’s door more than once. And the monster in the next room…was his father
The word felt wrong, heavy, foreign. Another thud echoed through the thin walls. The boy’s breathing quickened. His chest tightened as though invisible hands were already closing around his throat. He hated himself for shaking. Hated that his legs would not move. Hated that his body refused to obey the part of him that screamed to run in there. He imagined, for a fleeting second, something simple. If only a truck would run him over. If only it would end. If only he could disappear and never come back. The thought brought no comfort, only shame.
In the same cramped room, no larger than what could hold three narrow beds, stood a proper bed meant for one person. It belonged to his father. The boy and his mother slept on the floor beside it, sharing a blanket so thin it might as well have been paper. The world had decided long ago who deserved comfort and who did not.
“Damn it…” he whispered into the dark, his voice barely existing.
"Why am I so weak?". The question had no answer, it never did. His only crime was being born into a house that did not want him. Born into a world that felt colder each passing year. A world where strength decided who spoke and who bled. The sounds from the other room shifted, not shouting now, something else. A struggle, a scraping of feet against wood, then silence, not the usual silence. This one lingered too long. The boy’s eyes opened. His hands slowly fell from his ears. He strained to listen. Nothing, no cry, no movement. Just the faint creaking of old floorboards settling. His heartbeat grew louder in his head, too loud, too fast. He swallowed, and for the first time in two years… something unfamiliar stirred beneath the fear
Not courage, not anger. Something closer to refusal. His body moved before his mind did. He sat up. The cold air bit into his skin as the blanket slipped from his shoulders. The silence in the next room remained. Heavy. Waiting. And the boy realized, with a dread that crawled up his spine, if he did not move now…There might be nothing left to save
