The people who used to rejoice at seeing me—who gave me candy, invited me over—now avoid me, avert their eyes, walk around me.
Mother has withdrawn, and sometimes she unleashes her rage on me. I understand—she sees Father in me. And then, afterward, she apologizes.
I watch her in the mornings as she makes coffee. Every morning. But she doesn’t drink it. She sits with the cup, then pours it out.
The kids I used to be friends with… now they avoid me. I know why. Their parents order them to. It’s not their fault.
When we walk down the street, Mother pretends everything is fine. But I see the whispers, the smirks. I hear them. I feel them.
I’m an outcast. No—we are outcasts.
Every evening, I wait for Father. I listen for the familiar rumble of his engine. And while I wait, I draw happiness—the sun, the sky, and us.
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It’s cold here now. And so, so empty.
Today, I ride the bicycle Father gave me. I ride, trying to escape these hypocrites. Somewhere no one asks who you are, where no one cares if you have a father.
But it’s dangerous there. Still, it’s better than this fake, sneering contempt.
"Let me ride!" —other outcasts, just like me.
"No," I say calmly.
"What, scared, little boy?" —someone shoves me, and I fall.
A big guy climbs onto my bike and starts pedaling in exaggerated circles. The bike’s too small for him.
I watch. I wonder—why? Why does he need this?
"Give it back. Now."
"Go cry to Mommy!" He laughs.
Something uncontrollable rises deep within me. My hand lifts on its own—and the guy flies off the bike, knocked down by an invisible force.
Now I stand over him. Just… watching.
His face twists—not with fear, but terror. He scrambles up with a scream and starts to run. I raise my hand again, and he—light as a feather—lifts into the air and slams into a wall.
His friends rush toward me. Too many of them. Sticks and pipes in hand. They scream threats.
They want to kill me. I feel it. I know it.
To be continued…