I remember nothing.
Not the warmth of a mother's embrace, not the rough calluses of a father's hand, not even a brother's teasing laughter echoing in some distant yard.
I am Josh, the man with no blood.
And yet, the world flows with red in every corner, thick and warm, running through veins, dripping from knives, and staining the memory of those who call themselves family.
I walk through the cities like a ghost in daylight, unseen, untouched, unclaimed.
People glance at me, but their eyes never linger; perhaps they see only what I lack — the invisible chains of bloodlines, the inherited names that tether people together with love or resentment, pride or hatred.
I wonder sometimes if I would be the same as them, if I had a family to call my own.
Would I laugh?
Would I lie?
Would I break promises?
The first family I watched closely belonged to an old man named Howard, who lived with his daughter, Lala, and her young son, Tobias.
I had stumbled across their small suburban house by accident, or perhaps by fate.
Through the window, I saw a dinner table set in the golden hue of evening light.
Lala smiled at Tobias and whispered something I could not hear, but her eyes were soft.
Howard's hands trembled as he passed the bread, and for a moment, there was peace.
I wanted that peace. I ached for it.
But as the night deepened, I saw shadows behind the glow. Lala's smile hardened when Howard spoke of money, small inheritance disputes she called "insignificant."
Tobias, oblivious to adult quarrels, laughed at a story his father told in jest.
And then, Lala's words turned sharp. "I'm tired of this house. I'm tired of him. He's old, useless."
The accusation cut through the room like ice, and I saw Howard's face collapse.
He tried to speak, tried to soften the words, but she laughed, cruel and bright, and Tobias, confused, stared from his high chair.
The next morning, I saw the aftermath.
Howard was gone. Lila explained to Tobias that Grandpa had moved to a new home, but the look in her eyes, the faint smile as she packed away his belongings — it was not love that guided her hands. It was something colder, sharper.
That day, I understood the first truth about families: they are not always built on tenderness. Sometimes, they are battlegrounds where loyalty and greed bleed indistinguishably.
*******
I wandered farther, across streets and rivers, cities and villages, and everywhere I went, the same patterns repeated themselves.
Families, I realized, were mirrors — mirrors that could show the brightest reflection of warmth and the darkest shadow of betrayal.
There was a couple in the north, Peter and Maria, whose arguments shook the thin walls of their apartment.
They loved their son, Jonah, but their love was jagged, fragmented, screaming, tearing the air with accusations of inadequacy. One night, I watched as Maria threw a vase at Peter.
The glass shattered against his shoulder, a shallow wound that bled, but the scar in Jonah's eyes would remain forever.
That boy hugged both parents as they fought, whispering, "Stop." And yet, the parents did not stop.
They fought until they collapsed into each other, exhausted, and Jonah sat on the floor, silent, trembling, understanding far too much at an early age.
I began to wonder: is this what it means to belong? To love, yet fear?
To protect, yet hurt?
To live in the same home, yet not feel safe?
*********
In another city, I encountered a family whose love had turned to obsession.
A mother, Elaine, shielded her daughter, Rose, from the world, claiming it was for her protection.
She forbade Rose from speaking to friends, from leaving the house, even from attending school.
Rose obeyed silently, her face pale, her eyes dim.
But one evening, Rose ran. She ran through alleys and streets until she found me, and her voice trembled as she whispered, "I thought I'd never escape."
She did not know me, yet in her eyes, I saw the embodiment of the desire to break free from family chains.
I offered her no words, only a hand to guide her through the night.
And when I left her at a friend's home, I understood another truth: sometimes family can suffocate more than it protects.
But not all families were cruel.
*********
In a small village by the river, I watched a grandmother, Anna, care for her grandchildren.
Her hands were rough with work, her knees stiff with age, but she sang to them every night, baked bread every morning, and tucked them under warm blankets.
The children laughed with a purity that made my chest ache.
I wanted to be one of them, to hear that song, to taste that bread.
And yet, even there, there was imperfection.
The children fought, the eldest sometimes hit the youngest, and Anna's sighs revealed a fatigue deeper than mine.
But still, love persisted, threaded through patience and forgiveness.
I began to learn that family is not a uniform experience.
It is a prism, and the light of human nature splits into colors — some radiant, some dark, some painfully sharp.
It is not the blood that makes the connection. It is the choices, the intentions, the courage to forgive and to endure.
Then came the family I could not forget.
**********
A father, a mother, and their twin boys.
The parents, Daniel and Maren, had built a life of comfort.
But their love was transactional, measured in grades, trophies, and social appearances.
Their sons, Theo and Liam, understood quickly that affection was conditional.
I watched the cruelty unfold slowly.
When Theo fell ill, Daniel scolded him for being weak; when Liam broke a vase, Maren screamed until his ears bled.
The house was silent only when everyone was asleep.
And yet, Theo and Liam clung to each other, forming their own fragile bond, surviving in shadows where love failed.
I asked myself often, as I wandered and watched: do these bonds justify themselves? Are families truly sacred, or merely constructs where cruelty and kindness dance endlessly?
I wanted to reach into the houses, to speak to the parents, to save the children.
But I had no right, no claim. I was nothing but a witness, a man with no blood, a man untouched by the ties I so desperately longed to understand.
*******
One evening, I found myself in a small town, where a young girl cried on the steps of her home.
Her brother had stolen her favorite toy and broke it, and her parents had said nothing.
I knelt beside her and asked, "Does it hurt because of the toy?"
She shook her head. "It hurts because they didn't care."
Her eyes met mine, searching for a family I could never give.
And in that moment, I understood the depth of human longing: that we defend, excuse, and forgive our families because, in some way, we hope to be understood, even if the understanding is flawed.
***********
I wandered into a city park and saw an elderly couple arguing over a simple miscommunication.
Their grandchildren laughed nearby, unaware of the tension.
I sat on a bench, and for hours, I watched them.
And then I realized: family is never perfect.
It is messy, it is painful, it is unpredictable.
And yet… even in the cruelty, even in the betrayal, there is an unspoken desire to cling to one another, to survive together.
I met a young man who had killed his brother over an inheritance dispute.
The act was gruesome, and the trial was sordid.
Yet the young man, in the quiet moments of his cell, wept for the brother he had destroyed.
He did not weep for himself, for freedom, or for punishment — he wept for what they could have shared, what they could have loved.
And i felt the weight of that grief.
That sorrow, even in destruction, was a trace of the connection I never had.
**********
I walked along the rivers, cities, and villages, taking notes in my mind.
Families could be the cruelest monsters and the kindest saviors.
They could betray, maim, and abandon — yet also heal, protect, and love.
I witnessed all of it, and I felt the ache of absence.
The world I walked in was vibrant, red with blood, life, and conflict.
And I, Josh, the man with no blood, wondered if I would ever know what it meant to belong.
Then, one day, I stumbled upon a small street, a family gathering.
*********
The father dropped his keys; the mother laughed at the clumsiness; the children chased each other, squealing, the sunlight catching in their hair.
I watched from the shadows, and for the first time, I understood.
Perhaps the beauty of family is not perfection.
Perhaps it is the striving, the clinging, the willingness to try despite the mistakes, the anger, and the betrayals.
I wanted to step forward, to reach out and touch them, to learn what it meant to call someone "mine."
But I did not. I could not. I am the man with no blood.
And yet, in that moment, I felt a pulse in the world, a reminder that even if I never have a family, the concept of it — the striving, the defending, the failing, the forgiving — is what makes humans endure.
And so I walked on.
Through alleys, through streets, through cities of laughter and grief, of joy and pain.
I observed, learned, and understood.
Families could kill and protect, betray and love, abandon and embrace.
And in the complexity of their connections, I saw the most human thing of all: the willingness to defend those we call family, even when they hurt us, even when they break us.
I will never have blood running through my veins for another, but I understand it now.
Family is not a guarantee. It is a choice, an effort, a gamble.
And sometimes, it is the only thing that teaches humans how to forgive themselves for being imperfect.
I remain, then, a witness.
A man with no blood.
But not without understanding.
And perhaps, in that understanding, there is a measure of belonging after all — a symbolic family in the patterns of human nature, in the light and the dark, in the kindness and cruelty, in the striving that binds one soul to another.
And so, I walk again, the world unfolding before me. Each home, each argument, each embrace, each tear — a testament to the messy, beautiful, terrifying nature of what humans call family.
And I, Josh, can only observe… and hope that one day, perhaps, I will understand enough to call someone mine, even if only in spirit.
Stream Commentary; Tape #44. "The Man With No Blood"
(The stream flickered back to life, static crawling across the black screen before Kai's voice slid in, low and deliberate)
"Josh. A boy too gentle for the sins of this world.
He asked: 'Are humans truly monsters? Or am I simply unlucky?'
A question with no answer… or perhaps too many."
[@Ovesix: To be fair, his perspectives ….are not wrong. Just look at history, at how humans gnaw at one another for greed, pride, or fear. He sees the cruelty. He feels it. If anything, his vision is clear-eyed, sharper than most who blind themselves to survive]
[@Jaija: But—no, no, I refuse! Josh shouldn't carry that truth. He's too soft, too fragile. He should find a family that loves him, that wraps him up in warmth. I hope he finds a family to call his. He deserves it, doesn't he? Doesn't he?]
[@642: Ha! Family? Love? You fools. Humans will stain him the moment he lets them close. That boy is too pure — a lamb among wolves. You think wolves spare lambs because they're innocent and are longing for connection? No. They devour them first. Let him stay untainted, alone, unclaimed. It's the only way he survives with his purity intact]
[@Enchomay:…Or maybe purity itself is a curse. Maybe his fragility will always make him prey, no matter what path he takes. To be human is to suffer. And Josh… he suffers because he refuses to become like them. If he finds family, they may protect him — or they may use him. If he stays alone, he withers. A paradox with no escape]
[@Jaija: B-But, he deserves love-]
[@642: Nah, this generation is too disgusting for him, even though he witnessed a lot, he still has a long way to go]
The debate thickened like smoke. Hope clashing with despair.
One begging for Josh to find love. Another demanding he remain untouched. A third condemning him to inevitable ruin.
Then came a sound. A deliberate, slow sip.
Kai leaned back, the faint clink of a glass cup echoing in the silence.
(He sat calmly, almost amused)
"Perhaps you are all correct… and yet all wrong.
Josh's perspective is his truth, not the truth.
Humans are cruel, yes, but not all.
He may find a family who loves him, or he may be broken by their hypocrisy.
He may remain untainted, but in doing so, he may never truly live.
That is the tragedy.
Purity and corruption are not opposites, but twins.
And whether Josh chooses family or solitude, suffering will follow.
Such is the nature of humanity."
(He set the glass down, his tone sharpening)
"Moral lesson? Do not mistake innocence for invincibility.
To be too pure is to invite the world's corruption.
To be too trusting is to gamble with the devil.
And you, dear listeners… ask yourselves:
are you the family Josh longs for, or the monsters waiting at the door?"
(He chuckled softly)
Now, for the next tale is of love. Not the kind that saves — but the kind that devours.
A hunter… and a prey.
Desire sharp as fangs. Passion as delicate as skin.
I call it… "Pop The Balloon.'
STREAM ENDED.