The door slammed against the wall with violent force. My eyes immediately fell upon a sickening scene: a slightly obese man, reeking of the foul stench of alcohol, was gripping the hair of the woman who appeared to be my mother with a heavy hand while she lay on the ground. In his other hand, he held a half-empty bottle of wine.
The man turned toward me, and the intoxication granted by the wine vanished from his face, replaced by an expression dripping with loathing. "Who ordered you to come out, you monster?!" he growled in a raspy voice as he staggered toward me, letting go of the woman's hair.
I saw him raise his massive hand. I wanted to move, I wanted to kick him, to use anything to push him back, but this cursed body betrayed me once again. Instinctive fear, that muscular memory of old pain, completely paralyzed my limbs. I could do nothing but instinctively raise my hands in front of my face and close my eyes tightly, bracing for the blow.
"CRASH!"
It wasn't a slap, but the wine bottle shattering over my head with full force. I felt the glass scatter around my ears, and the cold, sticky liquid of the wine flowed over my silver hair, covering my face completely. A sense of confusion and panic washed over my body; I wanted to scream, I wanted to destroy this wretch, but I remained nailed to the spot.
"Don't move... or you know what will happen," the man said with a terrifying coldness, looking at me as if I were a disgusting insect. Then he turned away with indifference to return to the woman once more.
I looked through the strands of my hair, soaked in wine and tears, at my mother's face; it was as pale as death, and her eyes were filled with terror—not for herself, but for me. I saw the man raising the remains of the broken bottle, staggering madly.
[This bastard is really going to kill her!] my mind screamed. [He is not in his right mind, and he won't stop until he ends her life!]
His hand rose high, and the broken bottle glistened under the dim light of the hallway. At that moment, I felt something explode deep in my chest. Honestly, I don't know why I felt this way, but she seemed to be someone important to the owner of this body.
[Move... move, you cursed body!!]
In that critical moment, as the broken bottle descended toward the woman's body, the body that had been paralyzed moments ago moved by purely instinctive drive.
I lunged with all the strength I possessed and threw myself onto the man's arm, gripping it with my small, pale fingers. He was seized by shock for a moment, but it quickly turned into a mad frenzy.
"You little freak! How dare you?!" he screamed, swinging his massive arm as if I were a mere fly, throwing me with immense force toward the corner of the hallway where an old wooden table sat.
"THUD!"
My head slammed directly into the sharp edge of the table. I felt a sudden cold followed by an unbearable heat flowing from my forehead; a deep wound had opened, and blood began to flow profusely, mixing with the wine that already covered my face. A violent dizziness took hold, black spots danced before my eyes, and my consciousness began to gradually fade.
But the man didn't stop there. He approached me with heavy steps, and with sheer malice, his thick hand gripped my small neck and lifted me off the ground until my back hit the wall.
I began to suffocate. The air left my lungs completely, and a muffled rattling sound came from my throat. I felt the pressure of his fingers increasing as if he were trying to crush my windpipe. My eyes rolled upward involuntarily, and the world around me began to blur and disappear.
[Will I die again? This quickly?] I thought in despair as my limbs went limp.
In that decisive moment, as my consciousness began to fade and the man's fingers tightened on my neck with deadly force, my weary eyes opened with difficulty. I expected nothing but darkness, but what I saw was surprising.
My mother, who had been lying on the floor just moments ago, was standing behind the man. In her trembling hand, she held a rusted iron rod. It seemed she had exploited the moment he was occupied with choking me, gathered the last of her remaining strength, and struck him on the head with that rod.
"CLANG!"
The sound of the rod striking his skull echoed loudly. His grip on my neck suddenly loosened, his head snapped back, and his massive body fell to the floor, likely unconscious from the blow.
I collapsed to my knees, panting heavily, trying to regain the breath that had almost left me. I couldn't comprehend what had just happened. Is it over?
Suddenly, I felt two trembling arms wrap around my small body with force, pulling me into a warm embrace.
It was my mother. She held me tightly, buried my face in her damp hair, and tears began to pour from her eyes, wetting my silver hair.
"My dear boy... I'm sorry... I'm sorry for everything," she whispered in a raspy voice, nearly lost to the intensity of her sobbing. "I don't expect you to forgive me... but I want only one thing..."
I felt a strange ache in my heart as her tears fell upon me. This body was hugging her tightly, but inside, I felt empty. I didn't feel comfort, love, or the safety that was supposed to fill a child in their mother's arms. I remembered my past life; my real mother died when I was twelve. I hadn't felt a mother's presence for a very long time.
[Is this the desire?] I thought coldly. [The desire of this body to stay by her side?]
I knew this feeling wasn't mine; it was a legacy from this broken body. But for the first time, I didn't find this void annoying. Instead, I felt a strange urge to fulfill this wish. Perhaps it was a selfish desire on my part, but I wanted to stay by her side.
I raised my head slowly to see her eyes, swollen from crying. She finished her sentence in a voice barely above a whisper:
"...Let us escape from here."
_________
[Douma's Mother]
The mother sat on the cold floor, cradling the body of her small child, Douma. Her breath was hitching, and her tears would not stop falling, but in her eyes was an astonishment that surpassed her grief; her son had actually spoken. The child who had spent months in absolute silence, as if he were a marble statue, had spoken clearly today.
She looked back in her memory, remembering her first husband—that hero who never topped the headlines but was a symbol of gallantry and kindness to her and their small town. He was a middle-ranked hero, but his heart was large enough for everyone. When Douma was born, they were overwhelmed by a happiness that did not last long, as death snatched him away in a treacherous confrontation with a group of villains, leaving her and her young child behind.
In that dark moment, he appeared. An old friend of her late husband, he presented a face of sympathy and care. He convinced her that if she married him, Douma would find the father he lacked, and a smile would return to their home.
But that man had been deceived—or so he claimed at first. He told her he would gamble just once to pay off the debts he had accumulated, but that "one time" turned into an addiction, and the debts became insurmountable mountains. Instead of facing his failure outside, he decided to build his own hell within the house.
The man took pleasure in hitting her and locking Douma in that dark room. Every time she tried to intervene to protect her little one, she would receive a double portion of the abuse. Escape was not an option; he possessed a terrifying Quirk called "The Labyrinth." He could seal the place from every side, turning the house into a deaf box without windows or doors. No matter how much she tried to find an exit, the walls would shift around her until she always found herself back at the starting point. Even when he left to find food, he would leave the house behind as a "hollow square"—a prison with no way out.
She used to take advantage of his absence to sneak into her boy's room, but she always found him like an empty shell, staring into the void with lifeless eyes.
She didn't know why, but when she looked at him now as he clutched her shirt, she felt a profound pain.
She wiped her tears firmly and looked at the door, whose lock had been shattered moments ago. For some reason, "The Labyrinth" the man imposed was weakening, perhaps because he had lost consciousness.
"He won't touch you again," she whispered as she stood and gripped his small hand. "I will protect you, even if it costs me my life."
______
Hello, I may have written other works, but I'm still a beginner, so please overlook any mistakes and support me.