In a small, cold cell bathed in dim gray light, a boy no older than fourteen sat on a metal chair bolted to the floor, facing a psychologist seated behind a cracked table that groaned under the weight of the heavy silence. The boy did not look like a child; his skin was pale as if it hadn't felt sunlight in years, and his eyes were sunken deep, as though they had seen enough of hell to forsake life itself. His long, unkempt hair draped across his forehead, and beneath his eyes were dark circles that spoke of an age untouched by sleep.
The psychologist remained silent for a moment, observing the mysterious creature before him, then spoke in a soft tone that barely concealed a buried tension:
"Why did you do it?"
The boy didn't respond immediately. He slowly lifted his gaze, and with dead eyes void of tremble or remorse, he whispered without hesitation or anxiety:
"Uh... I want to die. I'm tired of this. When will they execute me? Will anything change if I explain?"
The psychologist swallowed hard, trying to mask his inner fear, then cleared his throat and said in a voice striving for professionalism:
"I'm here to help you… I know this is hard… I know you're just a child. This session is being broadcast on national television. It's your chance to clear your name, to explain what happened."
The boy's face showed no reaction. He shrugged coldly and said with barely a trace of sarcasm:
"Clear my name? From what?"
Then he returned his gaze to the table, as if the man before him no longer existed.
Outside that suffocating room, cameras streamed live footage to the street, where a news crew was interviewing people. A woman in her fifties, eyes brimming with tears, said:
"That boy? He's no innocent. Innocent? No... something else lives in him."
A journalist turned to an elderly man, asking:
"Do you think executing this child is the right decision?"
He replied with weary eyes and a sharp voice:
"Yes. That creature is not human. It's a demon in a child's body. Executing him is mercy for all of us."
Most passersby agreed, even if some hesitated. Hatred had outweighed pity.
Inside the interrogation room, the psychologist gathered his courage, inhaled deeply, then spoke with sharper resolve:
"Defend yourself. Please."
Seconds of silence passed before the boy slowly lifted his head, fixing his gaze on the man with a stare so piercing it seemed to look through him, not at him. He then said in a cold, flat voice:
"You know… if I could go back… I wouldn't have stopped."
The psychologist watched him silently. The boy leaned forward slightly and continued with the same unnerving calm:
"The one thing I regret… is not prolonging and being more creative in torturing them."
That's when the unexpected happened.
The psychologist fell from his chair, eyes wide in shock, face drained of color, voice trembling:
"You… You're not a child. You're a monster… No, a demon."
In that moment, two officers entered the room. They took the boy gently by the arms and led him away with chilling quiet. He didn't resist. He didn't speak. He walked as if his body knew the path to the end on its own.
The next morning, at exactly nine o'clock, amid a frenzy of hysterical media coverage, the electric chair was prepared in a closed chamber—its walls dark, reeking of isolation, law, and death.
Only a few people were present: officials, police officers, a coroner. Usually, a sponge soaked in salty water is placed on the condemned's head to accelerate the shock to the brain, causing immediate unconsciousness. But in this case—for some mysterious or intentional reason—the sponge remained dry.
The boy sat on the chair, his body appearing even smaller than it truly was. His eyes were steady—no pleading, no fear, not even sorrow. Restraints were fastened around his wrists and ankles, then a black hood was lowered over his head.
Silence fell.
Then the first shock hit.
He didn't lose consciousness.
His body convulsed violently, and a sharp scream tore through his lips, as if it ripped time itself.
The second shock left visible burns at the contact points, smoke rising from his hair. His eyes, though hidden by the hood, were still open in everyone's imagination.
The third lasted longer, more brutal. His skin melted, and the scream ceased to sound human.
The fourth was unnecessary, yet it was triggered.
From the back of the room, the coroner cried out:
"Enough!"
But someone didn't stop.
After two and a half minutes of agony and screaming, death was declared.
The stench of burnt flesh filled the room. Everyone left thinking it was over.
But it wasn't.
Because the boy… felt everything.
At the moment his heart stopped, he found no peace—only true pain.
It was as if his soul was being torn out from within by a thousand needles, as if it was being ripped, not released. He felt an unbearable slow detachment, an internal scream no one could hear, endless dizziness, and a fall into a bottomless black void.
There were sounds—deep pulses echoing from afar, like the heartbeat of the world pounding for him.
Everything burned inside him again.
His body was gone, but the pain remained.
He kept feeling. He kept suffering.
And for a moment, he wished he had never been born.
After a struggle that seemed to last in a place where time did not move, the void became absolute.
Then, slowly… he awoke.
He opened his eyes to find himself lying in a grand bed, inside a room of old-fashioned design, lit by flickering candles that danced along walls covered in ornate wallpaper. The wooden beams creaked under the ceiling, and the air was cold, unfamiliar.
He rose slowly, as if his body had forgotten how to move. His legs trembled, and his soul hesitated.
Cautiously, he stepped toward a tall mirror in the corner. The moment he looked into it, he gasped and staggered back.
It wasn't him.
The face staring back was of a man in his twenties, features eerily calm, his skin unmarred by burns—but his eyes… lifeless.
Suddenly, the pain returned.
The moment of death.
The electricity.
The soul being torn apart.
The fall.
The screams.
The final struggle.
As if something broke inside him.
As if a door had opened.
He dropped to the ground, hands bracing against the wooden floor, before violently vomiting.
It wasn't a normal sickness—it was a violent release from hell, from the memory of death.
He gasped, breath shallow, then whispered with a trembling voice, barely audible:
"I… died. I… died… and I felt everything."
He remained there, frozen, as if his mind was trying to grasp that he still existed.
The room was silent. But he knew…
This was not salvation.
It was the beginning of something else.
Something unlike the world he left behind.
[To be continued]