Marco blinked, and the cold, damp floor of his childhood home vanished. The shadows retreated, replaced by the warm, golden glow of a hundred candles. He was sitting at a long, mahogany dining table. The room was beautiful, draped in velvet and silk, smelling of roasted meats and expensive wine.
It was an imaginative dinner, a perfect reconstruction of a life he never truly had.
To his left sat Lily. She looked radiant, her hair done up in a bun, wearing the blue dress she had always saved for special occasions. To his right sat a man Marco barely recognized—his father. A noble man, stern and imposing, dressed in a fine tunic with a golden ring on his finger. And across from them sat Jeremy, silent and pale, his hands folded in his lap.
Marco looked down. There was a plate in front of him. A perfectly cooked steak lay there, steam rising in lazy curls.
He picked up his knife and fork. His hands felt heavy, like they were made of lead. He knew how to cut this. He had worked in inns all his life; he knew the grain of the meat, the pressure required.
But as he brought the knife down, his hand jerked. He cut the slice wrong—messy, jagged, tearing the meat rather than slicing it.
He froze. He knew he couldn't do anything right. Not here.
Lily opened her mouth, her eyes kind, ready to gently correct him, to show him the proper way as she had done when he was a child.
"Marco, honey, you just have to—"
"Stop," his father's voice boomed, cutting through the air like a whip.
Lily closed her mouth immediately. She looked down at her plate.
The father turned his gaze to Marco. It was a look of pure disdain. "Marco, what kind of insolent brat are you? You don't even know how to cut the meat? Maybe you don't deserve it."
Lily flinched. "Could you please go easy with him? He's just—"
"Shut up!" the father shouted, slamming his hand on the table. The silverware rattled. "It's your fault he is like this. You coddled him. You made him weak."
The argument erupted. Lily and his father began to shout, their voices overlapping, a cacophony of blame and anger. But Marco didn't hear the words anymore. He looked around the table.
Jeremy was staring at him. He didn't have a plate in front of him. He had nothing. He just stared, his eyes hollow, watching Marco struggle with a piece of meat he didn't even want.
Marco's heartbeat jumped in his throat. The silence in his ears began to deepen, drowning out the arguing parents. The silence grew louder and louder until—*snap*.
The arguing stopped instantly.
They were all looking at him now. Lily, the father, Jeremy. Their eyes were fixed on him, unblinking.
Lily spoke first. Her voice wasn't kind anymore. It was cold.
"What happened, honey?" she asked, tilting her head. "Cat got your tongue?"
Marco tried to speak, to apologize, to say he would do better. But he was petrified. Sweat dripped down his temple. His hands shook with a violent tremor. He couldn't say anything.
Lily scoffed. She leaned back in her chair, her face twisting into a sneer.
"You couldn't care less about us before you came here," she hissed. "Not even visiting your dead mother. MARCO!!!"
She reached across the table and slapped him.
The sound was sharp. Marco's head snapped to the side. His cheek stung.
His father stood up. He loomed over the table, a giant of judgment.
"You couldn't even visit your father, right?" the father growled. "You are such a BRAT."
He swung his hand. The slap was hard, brutal. It split Marco's lip. Blood began to trickle down his chin.
They both turned and walked away, fading into the shadows behind the chairs, leaving Marco bleeding and alone at the head of the table.
But he wasn't alone.
Jeremy stood up. He walked around the table slowly. He looked at Marco with tears in his eyes, tears of accusation.
"Guess I died in vain," Jeremy whispered. "You abandoned your lover too. Colden... you left him. Just like you left me."
Jeremy leaned in close. "I want that back. My life. You should die and see how it feels."
He slapped him. Hard.
Marco's hair flickered, the messy strands falling over his eyes. The pain was blinding.
Jeremy let his tears fall. He turned away, grabbing a heavy iron chain from the floor. He wrapped it around his own wrists and then walked to the other side of the room, sitting in the dark.
Then, from the shadows, another figure emerged.
It was Marco. But not the Marco of now.
It was his past version. The boy from the brothel. The boy who was innocent. The boy who had hope.
He walked up to the table. His face was twisted in rage.
"Why?" the Past Marco screamed. "Why did you not save her? Your mother! YOU KILLED HER!"
"I didn't mean to—"
"YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED HER!"
Past Marco reached out and slapped him across the other cheek.
Now, both of Marco's cheeks were red, throbbing with the heat of their hatred.
Marco sat there, the taste of iron in his mouth, the sting of rejection on his skin. He knew now. What he had done couldn't be forgiven. He was a murderer. He was an abandoner. He was a brat.
"Guess it's the end," Marco whispered.
From the darkness, Lily, his father, Jeremy, and his past self all returned. They each held a long, heavy iron chain.
They walked towards him.
They didn't say a word. They simply circled him.
One by one, they reached out and locked the chains around Marco's wrists, his ankles, his neck.
*Click. Click. Click.*
Marco didn't fight it. He sat still, the weight of the chains pulling him down into the chair, anchoring him to his guilt.
He was bound. He was judged.
To be continued.