Prologue
Tick tock. Tick tock.
The clock on the wall doesn't just tell time. It counts down. Every second is a hammer hitting the coffin lid, every tick another nail driven straight into my skull. It's so loud it drowns out my own heartbeat, so loud it feels like it's chewing through my nerves one by one.
With every passing second, the message is the same:
You are running out of time. You are getting closer to the grave.
Funny thing is, I'm calm.
Terrified, yes. But calm.
Maybe that's what happens when you've stared at the end for so long that it starts to feel... familiar. Comfortable, even. Like a monster that used to hide under your bed, but now just sits beside you and hums you to sleep.
So I sit here, and I think.
I think about all the things I wish I could unsee. All the little scenes burned into the back of my eyes. The kind of memories that don't fade with time—they rot. They fester. They grow teeth.
If I could go back to being a kid again—to that pathetic, innocent boy who still believed the world made sense—I would do it without a second thought.
Back then, everything was smaller. Softer. I didn't know what people were really capable of. I only saw what they wanted me to see. At least back then, I had a mother. She failed in almost every way a mother can fail—but she didn't abandon me.
That counted for something.
Society likes to call me broken.
A kid with issues. A problem. Something to be afraid of.
Some of them say I'm not even human anymore. That I'm an animal that slipped its leash. A monster that should've been put down a long time ago.
It's almost cute, the way they talk.
Because I'm not the one who started this.
I'm not the victimizer.
I'm the victim.
They made me. Piece by piece. Every bruise, every whisper, every hand that reached out not to help but to hurt. They carved me into what I am and then screamed when they didn't like the shape.
Come on now, take a seat, dear listener.
I don't have much time. By the time that clock drags its hands to morning, it'll all be over. The next dawn will be the last one I ever see.
You look uncomfortable. Good.
Maybe you've seen my face on the news, read my name in the papers. Maybe you've already decided what I am. Murderer. Freak. Monster. Evil.
I don't care, to be deathly honest, what you think of me. Everyone is entitled to an opinion. But if you're going to judge me, at least have the decency to hear my story first.
I don't want to die.
Not yet. Not like this.
But life has this sick sense of humor. It doesn't just throw curveballs—it throws knives and waits to see if you'll catch them with your bare hands.
You look confused.
Don't worry. I'll take you back to the very beginning. Back to where it all started. To the first time I saw a dead body.
Not a stranger.
Someone close.
You should get comfortable. Turn off the lights. Lock the door, if that makes you feel safer. It won't, but you can pretend.
Because I'm about to take you back to the first day the rails beneath my mind snapped, and the train that was my sanity started to come off the tracks.
Oh, and I haven't introduced myself, have I?
My name is Damian
It's a pleasure to meet you.
