Chapter [X]: Shadows That Burn
The night air felt heavy as I walked through the narrow alleyway. The dim streetlights above flickered faintly, fighting against the darkness, and my footsteps echoed against the cracked walls. It was quiet, too quiet, until a sudden swirl of black smoke consumed my vision.
The air turned cold.
A voice slithered out from the darkness—soft, almost affectionate, yet unnerving.
"Precious… Precious…"
I froze. That voice… it wasn't the first time I'd heard it. A small smile tugged at my lips despite the eerie atmosphere.
"What's up? How have you been?" I asked calmly.
The smoke shifted, condensing into a figure. Slowly, the shadow stretched and molded into the form of a young woman—long hair cascading beneath a wide black hat, her frame draped in a flowing black outfit that shimmered faintly in the night. Her eyes, though hidden beneath the hat's brim, carried an endless sorrow.
"How was your day?" she asked, her voice curious but hollow.
"It was good," I replied warmly, "I got to spend more time with my friends."
She tilted her head, lips curling faintly. "I see… so, were you able to ask Rejoice out?"
I laughed quietly, shaking my head. "Not yet. I'm just… waiting for the perfect time."
The lady chuckled darkly. "Perfect time? If you keep waiting for a perfect time, you will lose your chances."
I raised my chin, a confident grin spreading across my face. "Miss my chances? Never. I don't miss chances, and I don't lose—not when I've already made up my mind. I have an eye for winning. That's how my life is."
She studied me for a moment before nodding slowly. "I see… so you are a man of your words."
I nodded firmly.
Before long, I reached my house. The wooden door creaked as I pushed it open, and a wave of warmth greeted me.
"Precious, welcome home," my mom said with a bright smile, pulling me into a hug and planting a soft kiss on my forehead. Her warmth melted away the night's chill.
"How was your day?" she asked gently.
"It was fine," I replied, placing my bag on the living room chair.
"And how is Divine? Is he getting over his father's sudden death?"
"Yes," I said, recalling the moments from earlier. "It surprised me, honestly. He's healing quickly. He smiled a lot today. I'm really happy for him."
My mom's lips curved into a relieved smile. She turned then, her gaze settling on Clara—my ghostly companion, who stood silently behind me, her black dress blending into the shadows.
"And what about you?" Mom asked kindly. "How was your day?"
Clara's expression remained still, but her voice was quiet, almost brittle. "Kinda boring."
My mom laughed softly. "Don't worry. You'll get used to the human world. Soon, you'll see—it can be fun."
Clara's eyes darkened. "Fun? What is fun? The only thing I have ever known is hatred… and pain."
My mom's smile faded, replaced by gentle pity. "Pain will fade in time. Just pour out your hurt to God, and He will guide you."
I sighed, not wanting to hear heavy words tonight, and excused myself. Upstairs, I changed my clothes, showered, and finally lay down on my bed.
Peaceful. That was the life I had chosen to live—me, my mom, Clara, and Divine. These were the people I felt safe with. Yet deep down, there was always an emptiness. Love… real love… was something I had never experienced.
But memories never stay buried forever.
---
It began with the vision of a woman—running, gasping, clutching a basket in her trembling arms. A forest swallowed her path, its trees twisted like the claws of demons. She staggered forward, sweat and blood staining her face, her eyes wide with terror.
Inside the basket… was me. A six-year-old child.
Behind her, a monstrous arm—long, deformed, its flesh like rotting tar—pierced through her chest. She coughed blood, her body trembling as she refused to fall. With her last strength, she pushed the basket toward the rushing river.
"Live…" she whispered, her voice breaking as she collapsed.
The river carried me away as my mother's blood soaked the soil behind me. My father had already fallen, sacrificing himself earlier so she could run. That night, I lost everything. My childhood ended before it had even begun.
For three days and nights, the river carried me—no food, no warmth, no comfort. Only the endless cries of a child echoing into the vast, indifferent sky.
An old woman found me, her eyes widening at the sight of the abandoned basket. She was frail, her face lined with years of suffering. Her husband had died of kidney disease long ago, leaving her barren and alone.
She took me in as her son.
Her house in Lagos was small, fragile against the storms of poverty. She struggled with rent, and her landlord—a cruel man—sent thugs to torment us. Yet she always begged for mercy. Life with her was hard, but it was filled with something rare: kindness.
For four years, she cared for me, and I helped her with every chore, every burden. She was not my real mother, but she gave me the illusion of family.
Until that night.
The thugs returned. They dragged me out violently, beating her mercilessly. I screamed, powerless, as they poured petrol around the house. The flames consumed everything—my home, my second mother. I watched her burn while the landlord laughed in the shadows.
The pain etched itself into my soul. I learned the wickedness of man that night.
And then… I was sold.
Dragged like livestock, I was delivered into the hands of Oke—a merchant who dealt in slavery and human parts. His cold eyes examined me as if I were nothing but a commodity. I was no longer a child. I was merchandise.
That was the beginning of my chains.
---
"Precious?"
A knock shattered the flashback. My mother's voice pulled me back to reality.
I wiped my face quickly and opened the door. She stood there, smiling warmly. "Why the gloomy face?"
"Nothing. Just stressed out," I muttered.
"Stressed? With what?"
"Schoolwork, maybe," I lied.
Without waiting, she forced her way in, sitting on my bed.
"Why did you just barge in? I didn't give you permission," I said half-heartedly.
She laughed softly. "Permission? You're so funny, Precious. Since when does a mother need permission?"
Her words felt odd… different.
She looked around my messy room and sighed. "Why is your room so untidy? You're a boy, for God's sake."
"I told you, I've been busy with schoolwork."
She sat beside me, gently placing her hand on my forehead. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Are you sure? Your temperature feels high… You're not doing anything dangerous, are you?"
"No."
She pulled me close, pressing my head against her chest. Her warmth, her heartbeat, her scent—it reminded me of safety.
"Precious… you don't have to be lonely all the time. Sometimes, you need to share your burdens. Don't keep everything locked inside."
Her words pierced me. I wanted to speak, to pour out everything, but the words stuck in my throat.
She kissed my forehead softly. "Precious, I love you."
"I love you too," I whispered.
She smiled and left.
Even though she wasn't my real mother, she had always loved me as if I were her own. That love was something I never deserved but always craved.
---
Clara emerged from the ground silently, sitting beside me. "Your mom is really lovely and caring."
A small smile broke across my face. "Yeah, she is."
"So, were you able to tell her about your past?"
"Yeah".
" I thought you didn't want people to know about your past."
Clara rose into the air, her figure glowing faintly as she levitated. "I don't… unless they are special."
"I see…"
She narrowed her gaze. "Precious, lately you've been screaming in your sleep, shaking every night. Is everything alright?"
I froze. So she had noticed.
"Well… these days, I've been having nightmares. I don't understand them—creatures, dying lands, wars, flames. They haunt me. My heart pounds like it's going to explode."
"Have you told your mom?" she asked softly.
"No…"
"You should," she said firmly.
I nodded, though I knew I wouldn't. I didn't want to worry her.
Later that night, I lay in bed, chatting with Rejoice on my phone. Suddenly, my chest tightened. My heart pounded violently.
Flames. My surroundings burned. The walls cracked and crumbled into ashes. My body ignited, and I screamed silently.
In the inferno, I saw him.
A man.
No… a corpse.
His skin was charred black, as if rusted by centuries of fire. His flesh cracked, glowing with embers beneath. Chains bound his arms, yet he walked forward slowly, deliberately. His eyes burned with an inhuman light.
Every step he took made the ground hiss and melt.
He stopped before me, towering above, his face unrecognizable, a mask of ruin.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice a guttural rumble. "Our time has not yet arrived."
The word struck me—our.
Our? Who was we?
Suddenly, he pressed his burning hand against my forehead. Pain exploded through my skull. I screamed as fire seared into my skin, branding me with agony.
And then—darkness.
I jolted awake, gasping, drenched in sweat. Clara was beside me, concern on her face.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
I clutched my forehead. "Yeah… how long was I asleep?"
"Since we finished talking," she said.
It was a dream.
Or so I thought.
My fingers brushed my forehead—and froze.
A burn mark. A real one.
"What the hell… Was it real? What's happening to me?"