There's a limit to how long you can stare at a wall before you start to imagine it bleeding.
That's what I was doing, at first, before Jace stumbled through the door, fuming and twitching, with that unmistakable stench of cigarette ash and rotten luck clinging to him like oil. I hadn't said anything. I hadn't even looked up.
And yet, somehow, I was the one who ruined his day.
He barked my name as if I were a dog, as if the word itself carried rage, and then started one of his tirades about monsters and devil children. Apparently, walking past him while he was losing money made me complicit in his idiocy. The laughably fragile ego of a grown man who gambles away rent money and blames the eight-year-old in the room.
Humans.
They never take responsibility for their filth. They need something to hit, something to break, something to spit on, and call evil just to keep their reflection from looking back. It would be funny if it weren't so predictable. But it's never funny.
He called me a monster, called me a devil child, called me a worthless pile of shit, and then slapped me hard enough that the ringing in my ears nearly drowned out the sound of his labored breathing.
And I considered it. I stood there, heat crawling up my arms like flame, my mind a perfect, glacial silence.
I could do it.
I could lunge, wrap my hands around his throat, and crush the soft, greasy flesh until he stopped making noise. The image wasn't fuzzy. It was sharp, clean, and oh-so-perfect.
Hell, I could snap off a piece of the picture frame, stab it through his throat, watch him choke on his blood with more alcohol than a booze factory.
After all, it'd be one less parasite in the world.
But I didn't. Not because I didn't want to. God, I wanted to. But I've read enough. I've watched enough. The aftermath would swallow me whole. Police. Cells. Lies. More eyes on me than I could handle.
So, I just took it. Every punch, every kick, every blow to the ribs. It wasn't time yet, not time to strike, not my time to do anything. Not yet. If everyone was right and I was a monster, a snake, then it wasn't time to sink my fangs in his throat.
Fists that were trembling with booze and rage landed over and over, and I didn't cry. Didn't scream. Just locked my teeth and waited. Every blow etched a message into my bones: this is humanity. This is the filth of the species I was born into, a complete and total waste of space.
I woke up in the basement.
Concrete floor. One flickering bulb swinging like a dying sun overhead. My ribs burned, each breath shallow. Blood had dried at the corners of my mouth, flaked against my skin. I forced myself up. Each step up the stairs was a tight breath of agony.
When I made it outside, the air bit at me like judgment. Not cold. Just sharp. I walked to school alone, wiping blood from my nose with the sleeve of my shirt. People stared. Nobody asked.
Typical of humans, ignoring others, ignoring injustice. At least, until that injustice arrives on their doorstep.
School was its usual theater of chaos. Kids screamed over one another in a chorus of nonsense, desks scraped like nails on bone. My ears rang louder than their voices. The lights above buzzed with a relentless white, humming like electricity just beneath my skin.
I sat at my desk, silent as always, a statue in a hurricane. The chair creaked under my weight. My back was a roadmap of aches, my ribs a ticking clock. I'm sure whatever I looked like this time, it wasn't great.
Mrs. Hartley called for order, her voice a brittle reed against the flood. It broke. No one listened. Someone threw a pencil. Someone laughed. I just watched the chalk dust settle like ash over the surface of her desk.
At lunch, the cafeteria was an oven. Trays clattered, kids shouted, and someone somewhere was singing off-key. My food was tasteless. Cardboard and chemicals. I chewed anyway, not that it was good. It tasted like filth.
Halfway through the day, a fight broke out in the hallway. Two boys, fists flying, curses shouted with more passion than they'd ever given to the problem seven times three. I wasn't involved. Didn't even care. But someone, somewhere, pointed and said I started it. No one followed up. It was easier that way.
Even when I did nothing, people saw violence in my hands. Violence seemed stitched into my skin, dripping from my shadow.
I could feel it, too. That simmer, that quiet rage. Maybe I was made of violence, maybe I was meant to be a monster, just like everyone said? That's all it'll ever be, a maybe.
It wasn't in the way I glared or scowled. It was how still I became, how even my breath stopped, like my body was holding itself at bay, waiting, just like my old teacher said, waiting like a snake.
At home, I lifted my shirt to show my mom the bruises. Her mascara was smeared, and her glass was full, which meant she wasn't going to believe a word I said.
"Stop lying. Just stop. Can you let me be happy for once? Just once?"
Happy. What a funny word, I don't recall ever feeling it. Does it mean being proud of yourself? Or does it mean throwing people under the bus so you can stay wrapped in your worthless pleasure?
I glared at her. Not that she noticed. I looked at her and saw weakness wrapped in flesh. All humans were like this, liars, cowards, addicts of their own decay. If they weren't drowning in their filth, they were throwing you in with them. Not that they'd care if they drag you down with them, they enjoy it.
I went upstairs. The bath was cold, but I didn't bother to heat it. I stripped and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Brown hair, tangled and dry. Tan skin littered with small bruises and a blooming purple constellation over my ribs. My eyes—amber, dull. Even with the bathroom light flickering directly into them, they didn't catch, they didn't glow.
There was nothing alive in them.
I slid into the water and let the cold seep into my bones. Pain quieted. Rage went silent for a moment, curling into itself like a serpent waiting for spring. Like a snake waiting to be unleashed upon the world.
I remembered my birthday was in a few days. I'd turn nine, not that I particularly cared.
I hoped they forgot. The last thing I needed was a cake and a forced smile from people who couldn't remember the last time they looked at me without disgust.
No. I didn't want a celebration.
I wanted silence, I wanted to be left alone, let alone by this shitty species, by this shitty world, by every worthless thing that had ever deemed itself human.
Later that night, after the house had stilled and the scent of alcohol had settled into the walls, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.
And I asked myself: 'Why not? Why not kill him?'
It would be easy. One moment. One act. The kind of thing that would echo forever, sure, but only if someone cared enough to listen.
But they wouldn't. Not really.
Monsters don't get trials. They get let off free, set loose back into the world. They get lawyers who defend them, lawyers who keep them free, lawyers who help cover the scum and help them roam around without consequence.
I closed my eyes and imagined it anyway. Again. Again. My hands on his neck, the look in his eyes as he realized what I was. What he made me into.
Would that make me like him, or would it make me honest?
I didn't sleep, not because of fear. Because I couldn't decide which answer scared me more.