Ayah For The Ruthless

On my twelfth birthday, the first gift I received was the burn of my skin as my head slammed against the wooden edge of a chair, my vision hazy and painted red as blood slid down my temple, and when another blow struck my stomach I emptied everything I had eaten in the last two days, my body convulsing and trembling as though it no longer belonged to me.

The laughter of my classmates echoed in the gym as hot coals were pressed against my hands, my flesh searing while they threw me onto the ground like I was nothing more than a broken doll. My glasses cracked beneath their shoes, the world turning into a blur of shapes and colors. I could only hear them, the sound of their amusement filling the air, cruel and unrelenting, as if my screams were a kind of music to them.

“Ayah, baby, don’t you need some water to cool down your arms?” one of the girls taunted, and before I could even comprehend her words, boiling water splashed across my skin, burning me deeper than the fire had. Their laughter followed again, filling the vast gymnasium, and I used the last threads of energy left in me to scream until my throat tore.

A hand gripped my chin and forced my face upward, and through the blur of pain I saw her smile, sharp and vicious, as she whispered, “Be grateful for the water, friend.”

“Monster,” I breathed, though the word was nothing more than a fragile thread of defiance.

The response was immediate. They descended on me again, and for thirty long minutes they broke me for the sake of one word, their fists and kicks tearing through flesh and bone until the floor beneath me was wet with sweat, blood, and vomit.

When they were finished I lay almost lifeless on the ground, the ceiling lights spinning above me, my body twitching from the pain. There was always a rule, one that hung in the air like a curse: I was not allowed to faint. I never knew how they expected me to control that, but whenever I did lose consciousness, their punishments afterward were always far worse.

I was prey. They were hunters. And nobody ever intervened. Who would choose to stand between predators and their chosen target? Not my classmates, not even the teachers, because anyone could be next.

When I finally managed to crawl to the washroom I let the water from the shower run over me, sitting there until I could no longer feel the sting of the burns, until the steam clouded the mirror and blurred even my own reflection, and only then did I drag myself out, my clothes heavy, my body trembling with exhaustion.

The gates were blocked. I could hear them still outside, waiting, and so instead of leaving I climbed the stairs up to the rooftop, the sound of their laughter chasing me even as I escaped. I sat on the railing, balancing between the weight of my broken body and the fragile thrill of being so close to falling. Death always called to me like this, whispering promises of peace, though I was too afraid to let it take me, and so I only leaned closer, only tempted fate, only allowed myself to feel the tremble of what it would be like if I slipped.

My parents had expected nothing of me when I was born. They had wanted only money, the kind that came from drugs and dirt, but when my arrival forced them to end their business my father never forgave me. His fists became the rhythm of my childhood, his rage filling the nights until the house itself seemed to shake beneath his voice, and every bruise on my mother’s skin and mine was a reminder that we were never meant to be his family, only his curse.

So yes, I laughed at despair. It was the only way to live with it. I was terrified of death, but the idea of it thrilled me. I would stand in front of buses and trucks, daring them to stop, listening to the horns blare and the drivers shout until the rush of fear left me trembling. Sitting on that rooftop railing was no different; I dangled above nothingness and for a moment it felt like freedom.

“Dying looks easier, doesn’t it?”

The voice startled me, low and smooth, and I turned to find a boy sitting beside me as if he had always been there. He looked a little older, with hair the color of ash that caught in the wind and eyes so dark they seemed endless, empty pools that mirrored my own. His face carried shadows, not only from the night but from something buried deeper within him, something unseen yet heavy enough to bend the air around him.

I nodded, unable to speak.

“The stars look better than this world,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the sky.

“You won’t be able to live there,” I whispered, my voice rough.

Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t empty. It was heavy, like we had already spoken a hundred words. Then, finally, he turned to me.

“It’s painful to look at you.”

A small smile tugged at my lips, bitter and broken. “My scars are always worse for people to see.”

“They’re worse for you to feel.” His words cut deeper than any bruise.

I looked at him more carefully. “You don’t have to worry. You don’t even know me.”

He smiled then, and it was startling, because for a moment his face lit up as though it could tear through the shadows. “That’s why it hurts. You’re beautiful.”

I froze. The word sounded foreign, strange, impossible. “How can my scars be beautiful?”

“They’re ugly,” he admitted, his fingers brushing lightly across one, his touch almost reverent. “But what lies beneath is not.”

I stared into his eyes, searching for the truth. “Who are you?”

“Elio Ford.”

The name alone was a weight. Ford. The Fords of EastHolders, the empire that ruled through wealth and power, the family name people whispered with both fear and envy.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, though my curiosity betrayed me. Why would someone like him sit with someone like me?

“I know,” he replied with the calmness of someone who didn’t care. “But I love being on the verge of death.”

His words felt like mine, spoken through another mouth, and it unsettled me more than anything else. I didn’t know whether to feel connected to him or terrified of him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small packet, and inside it was a diamond ring that caught the moonlight. Without meeting my eyes, he pushed it toward me.

“Keep it.”

I frowned, staring at him. “Why should I?”

“I’m giving it to you. Do whatever you want with it,” he said. “My mother gave it to me because she’s afraid I’ll kill her. She thought a promise bound in diamonds would keep me away.”

My blood ran cold at the ease in his tone, at the way he spoke of such horror as if it were nothing.

“Why would you kill your mother?” I asked, my voice trembling with disbelief.

His smile was calm, chilling. “Because I just came back from killing my father.”

In one hand, he revealed a knife, the blade dripping with fresh blood. In the other, a small gift box. When he opened it, a severed head stared at me with lifeless eyes.

The sight ripped a scream from my throat. I gagged, my stomach twisting violently, my body recoiling.

His eyes locked onto mine, filled with cruelty and mockery.

I stumbled down from the railing and ran, my legs weak but moving, my heart slamming against my chest. The bullies outside no longer mattered. I pushed through the main gate, desperate to escape, desperate to breathe—

But then I froze.

They were already dead. Every single one of them, sprawled across the ground, their throats slit, the pavement painted red.

My body turned to stone. My mind screamed at me to run, but my legs would not move.

A hand closed around my waist, firm and unyielding, and another slid over my eyes.

Elio’s voice was a whisper against my ear, smooth and unhurried, as though the world around us wasn’t drenched in blood.