"Please… Please, no more—no more—AAAGHHHH—!"
That's what I sounded like back then. Small. Shaky. The kind of voice that begs.
Big, ugly, red-faced men. Old women clutching prayer charms with one hand and throwing stones with the other. They laughed. When I cried. When I pissed myself from the pain and begged for my mother.
They said I was cursed. Said I'd bring ruin unless I was purged. But I wasn't ruin back then. Just a girl.
A girl whose arms broke trying to pull herself free. A girl whose mother was raped in front of her. One after another, like she was nothing. Then they burned her alive. And her last words? Not "help" Not "Run." Not even "I love you."
"You're the curse. You've ruined us. Remember that. Everything that dies here—dies because of you."
No love. No plea. Only accusation, only hatred. The fire licked at her skin, along with the men who were also violating her, but her voice was colder than ice. I felt it pierce me deeper than any flame ever could.
Her body had been turned into a message. Something to shame. Something to punish. Her voice didn't shake. Didn't waver. She wanted me to know it. And I watched it all, too weak to move, too broken to scream.
They said it was mercy. Said they were saving my soul. They branded me right below the ribs—still the memory stings whenever the sky weeps.
The Marking of the Beast, they called it. Funny name. I wasn't a beast. Not then. They tied me to a stake like some festival puppet and made me watch as they dragged my mother through the dirt.
Her clothes were torn, her hands broken. She screamed. Fought. Bit. Half of what remained of her gown hung from her body. Her chest bare, pierced with rusted rings driven through soft flesh, bleeding down her stomach. One through her nipple. One through her belly. Another through her thigh. Branding her. Marking her like cattle. Or worse—like they thought she deserved it.
"Please! Stop! Somebody help her!" I screamed, my voice tiny and cracking, barely more than a squeak. "Mom! Don't! Please, don't!" My hands shook as I clawed at the ropes.
Tears burned my eyes, my throat raw from screaming. "I can't… I can't watch this! Please! Make it stop!" Each word trembled with fear, with the hopelessness of a child begging the world to undo what it had done.
But no one came. No one ever came.
I thought maybe if I sounded pitiful enough, someone would stop. That maybe the smell of burned skin would be enough. Or the way my arms wouldn't move anymore from the bindings. But they didn't stop. They didn't care.
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They kept me like an animal.
Weeks passed. Months. Time had no meaning anymore. My fingers snapped like brittle twigs under their hands. My eyes rolled back in its socket, dead to the world—but they healed me. Not out of mercy. Not out of care. They wanted me whole. Whole enough to be broken again.
An elixir to mend shattered limbs. A balm to smooth cracked skin. But the brand on my body—seared into my flesh—remained. It burned, bleeding shame into every movement, every breath.
They took me out for walks. A leash around my neck, biting into tender flesh. No clothes. Crawling on all fours. I was a dog. A pet. A toy.
I ate from a bowl on the floor. Raw, spoiled meat. If I dared lift my hands, I was punished. Then healed. Then punished again. The cycle never ended. If I refused to eat, they slammed my face into the bowl. If I resisted, they forced it down my throat, piece by rancid piece.
I slept in filth. The room reeked of decay, and I could not tell where the floor ended and the waste began. Where I shat and pissed in the corner, abandoned to my own filth, because no one cared enough to stop it.
And still, I survived.
Heh. They called me monster, sinner, freak — cute little names to tuck into their stupid prayers. One day, I just snapped. Something inside me finally laughed at their rules. And when I moved… oh, they didn't even see it coming.
It started small. A step, a shove, a scream swallowed before it left their mouths. My hands found eyes, throats, soft necks, and it was so easy — too easy. Hah! Hahaha! The sound spilled from me, wild and uncontrolled, echoing off the walls.
They thought they could control me, heal me, break me… thought I'd bend, thought I'd crumble. Hah. Instead, I didn't break. I didn't even flinch. I became the predator, and they were nothing.
And when I finally made it out… I kept laughing. Heh-heh—hah! Ha! Haaa! I almost got caught—gah!—but I clamped a hand over my mouth, choking back the vomit threatening to spill out. I ran. I ran until my weak bones screamed and snapped beneath me, until I fell and crawled, my arms breaking against the rough ground. And still I didn't stop. I pivoted off my head, rolled, tumbled, anything to keep moving, until I was really free.
Hehahahaha!
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I am Malithra — the shadow behind every grin, the whisper in every ruined hall, the queen of fear dressed in delight.
Oh, don't pout — I adore it when you tremble. I wrap your fear around me like a silken scarf, sipping it like the finest wine. Your precious little kingdoms? I'll rot them from the inside out… not because I care for chaos, silly! No, no, it's simply the only way I remember who I truly am.
Try to save me, if it amuses you, pet. But be warned — do anything too heroic and I might just nibble your hand off for fun! Mwahaha! — and don't sit there with that shocked face, you damn mutt. You should know by now: I'm not changing. Not for you, not for the moon, not even for the stars themselves.
Call me monster — I'll polish the title and tuck it under my chin like a crown. Call me fiend, call me witch; I'll answer with a wink and wear those names like jewels on a velvet collar. Evil, you say? Pfft — I am the living, breathing definition of it! I will become the dictionary entry: "Evil (n.) — see Malithra."
Let them whisper the word in playgrounds and prayer rooms until it slides off every tongue as my signature. I will be the polite smile on a blade, the lullaby that teaches teeth to sharpen; the very embodiment of wickedness itself — bowing, murmuring, trembling before my name. Yes… mine, all mine!