Chapter 3: Nightmare

~~~~~~4 YEARS LATER ~~~~~

"You were so delicious,” the guy said as he licked his lips, his voice low and mocking. The others in the room burst into laughter, their cruel eyes fixed on Arden.

Arden sat on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling as he pulled the thin bedsheet tightly around his bare shoulders. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his entire body burning with shame. He could still feel their eyes, their laughter stabbing into him like knives.

One by one, they glanced at him, smirking, and then turned to leave. Their footsteps echoed as they walked out of the room, their laughter trailing behind them. The door closed, leaving Arden alone in the suffocating silence.

His eyes darted toward the last person in the room—Carlos.

Carlos’s smirk was colder than the others.

Arden’s lips trembled. “Why… why!!!” he yelled, his voice breaking as tears blurred his vision. He shut his eyes tightly, wishing he could disappear, wishing it was all just a lie.

When he opened them again, he froze.

His parents stood there.

His mother and father, both smiling at him as if nothing had happened. As if they had never left him.

“Mom… Mom…” His voice shook as he reached out toward her. “Dad… Dad!!!”

But before he could touch them, they faded.

Arden jolted awake, gasping, clutching his chest. His body shook with sweat, his heart pounding as though it wanted to rip out of his ribcage.

That dream. That same dream.

It came back again and again, haunting him, reminding him of everything he had lost, everything that was taken from him.

He sat there in the dark, the thin mattress beneath him rough and uncomfortable. He rubbed his damp face with his hands and took a deep breath, his chest heavy with exhaustion. Slowly, he turned toward the window.

Through the dusty glass, he saw the faint glow of dawn. The sky was still dark, but hints of blue and orange began to bleed through.

He sighed. He didn’t need a clock. He already knew.

It was five a.m.

Time to start his morning duty.

Arden got up from the bed, his limbs stiff and aching. The room he slept in was little more than a store room—a cramped, dusty space filled with cobwebs and the faint smell of mold. He had gotten used to it, or at least he told himself he had. The only thing that belonged to him was the small mattress on the floor, thin and old, barely enough to keep his back from aching every morning.

He slipped into his worn-out clothes, tied the laces of his battered shoes, and stepped quietly out of the room. The house was still asleep, quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Arden moved quickly. He knew the rules: wake up before everyone else, finish the chores, and don’t make noise.

He started in the living room, sweeping the already clean floor until it shone. Then he dusted the shelves, polished the table, and arranged the chairs. His movements were quick, practiced—he had done this so many times that his body knew what to do even when his mind was elsewhere.

Next came the dishes. He rolled up his sleeves, dipped his hands into the cold soapy water, and scrubbed each plate until it gleamed. The soap stung his skin, but he ignored it.

After that, he stepped outside. The morning air was crisp, the compound large and quiet. He picked up the broom and began sweeping the yard, even though the ground barely had any leaves. Still, he swept. It wasn’t about the dirt—it was about control. His uncle and aunt wanted to see him work.

When he was done, he carried a bucket of water and started washing the cars. There were two—his uncle’s black SUV and his aunt’s smaller car. He scrubbed the wheels, wiped the windows until they sparkled, and polished the handles. His muscles ached, his back screamed, but he didn’t stop.

By the time he was finished, the sun was already rising. The house was no longer silent. He could hear voices inside—the clinking of cutlery, the sound of laughter.

Arden wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped back inside, his stomach growling. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Maybe, just maybe, they would let him eat breakfast today.

The dining room was bright with sunlight when he entered. The table was set with plates of eggs, bread, bacon, and glasses of juice. His uncle Curtis sat at the head of the table, his expression stern as always. Mabel, his aunt, sat beside him, her face sharp and cold. Across from them sat their two sons—Daylen and Derek.

Arden paused at the entrance, then took a deep breath and forced himself to greet. “Good morning.”

Mabel lifted her head slowly, her eyes narrowing as she stared at him. Her lips curled in disgust.

“There is no food for you,” she said flatly, before turning back to her plate.

Arden froze. “But… I finished all the chores already.” His voice was low, almost pleading.

“And I said you don’t deserve to eat,” Mabel replied without looking at him.

“Exactly,” Daylen added with a smirk. He shoved a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed loudly, his eyes locked on Arden with satisfaction.

Arden bit his lips, fighting back the tears burning behind his eyes. He turned to leave the room quietly, but Curtis’s voice stopped him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Arden turned slowly. “I… I want to go prepare for lecture.”

Curtis leaned back in his chair. “Let your lecture wait. Take this list and get some things for your aunt at the market.” He picked up a folded piece of paper from the table and stretched it out toward Arden.

Arden hesitated. “But…”

BANG!

Curtis slammed his hand on the dining table, making the plates rattle. “Will you do what you are asked to do?!” he yelled.

Arden flinched, his heart racing. Quickly, he walked forward and took the paper from his hand.

Daylen chuckled lightly, shaking his head. Derek stayed silent, eating slowly, his eyes unreadable.

Arden turned to leave again, clutching the paper in his hand.

But Curtis’s voice stopped him once more.

“Mr. Xavier will be coming over soon,” he said firmly. “Make sure you’re on your best behavior.”

Arden paused, his brows furrowing. The name alone made his stomach churn. He knows much about Mr. Xavier. He knew enough to feel disgust twist in his chest.

Still, he dared not let his uncle see the look on his face. He lowered his head quickly, biting back any words, and walked out.

As the door shut behind him, Curtis’s eyes followed him with sharp disdain.

“Bastard,” he muttered under his breath...