The only thing louder than his father was the silence that followed. Thirteen-year-old Ashwel sat on the cold floor of his small, dark closet, knees pulled to his chest, listening. In the next room, his father, Mark, seethed, the rage still boiling through his veins. The boy is useless. A failure, Mark thought, clenching his fists. A constant disgrace to this household. Too smart for his own good.
His mother, Lily, stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing an already clean plate. Her thoughts were wild and unconstrained, a familiar, frantic loop. I should kick him out. Let him die. But it will make Father angry. It's better to stay like this and wait. We'll wait until he's gone. In the meantime, as long as it's not serious, we'll just vent our frustration on that useless boy. As long as Father doesn't notice. She believed this every time—a necessary lie to overcome her fear.
But inside the closet, Ashwel's thoughts were different tonight. They were no longer of fear or sadness, but a single, clear line drawn in his mind. This is the last time, he promised himself, tracing a faint crack in the wall. The very last time. He didn't know it then, but that silent promise was a seed. And Ashwel was barren soil no longer.
The following weeks were a performance. Ashwel became the perfect, quiet son. He did his chores without being ordered. He quietly took the beatings, looking down at the floor when spoken to. His parents, particularly Mark, saw this sudden obedience and thought his 'lessons' were working. He's mentally breaking down and will be more controllable, Mark thought, and the inheritance in Father's will will be all mine after discarding this boy.
They were fools.
For in the solitude of his closet—now turned sanctuary—he saved crusts of bread and scraps of fruit from his meals, hoarding them in a small hole behind a loose baseboard. He did push-ups on the cold floor when the moon shone bright until his arms screamed. Strengthening a body too small and weak for his age was no easy task, but he sucked up the pain and grunted his way toward his goals. He practiced his movements in the early morning, learning the ins and outs of the place, familiarizing himself with which floorboards groaned and which doors stuck.
His mother noticed his silent behavior and mistook it for idiocy and mental collapse. A huge part of her was relieved and ecstatic. A controllable child meant a happy husband, and so much more money for her to spend, she told herself. She never once imagined he was planning to escape. She stayed quiet and grew more relaxed, seeing a not-so-distant future awaiting her.
The plan was set for the following night. Ashwel would be out late, and the forecast predicted a minor storm—the wind and rain would silence any sound.
As that night arrived, the moon at its peak, the house was a symphony of sleeping noises. Lily lay naked on the bed, in a deep, exhausted sleep. Next to her lay a naked Mark, sleeping like a fat pig. They were both oblivious to the child who was no longer theirs.
Ashwel moved like an assassin. He slid through a window in the kitchen, the howling wind covering the slight sound. He shouldered a small bag containing his food, a stolen knife, and a small portrait of a man he barely remembered as his grandfather.
He paused on the windowsill, a silhouette against the flashing sky. He did not look back. There was no one there to say goodbye to. He thought only of his future, of the strength he had forged in the dark, of the freedom that lay beyond the rain-soaked lawn.
His father, in his sleep, dreamt of countless women at his command, vast riches at his disposal, and future mistresses. He tossed and turned but did not wake.
Ashwel dropped softly onto the lawn and started running. He was not running away from something, but toward a limitless future.
And the eyes of a mysterious man saw it all happen, watching him go and knowing a dragon was about to be born. The shadow of the boy now left a fading city behind, all that remained of his previous life covered in black smoke rising high into the night sky.