John never knew his mother.
She died the moment he was born, leaving him behind in a world that showed no mercy from the very first breath. His father was all he had—yet even that was a curse disguised as family.
By the time John turned five, pain had already become familiar.
His father drank every day. When the bottle was empty, his anger wasn't. John was beaten for breathing too loudly, for standing too still, for nothing at all. Bruises became routine. Fear became normal. Love never existed.
One evening, as little John cried quietly in the corner, his father approached him. His voice was deep, calm, almost gentle.
"Come with me, son."
John believed him.
Rope burned into his wrists as his father tied him up. No explanations followed. No questions were answered. For reasons John could not understand, his father's tears fell as he whispered broken, meaningless words into his ear.
For two hundred dollars, John was sold.
Money that vanished into alcohol before the night even ended.
As John was dragged away, his cries echoed until silence swallowed them. From that night onward, John no longer had a surname. The man who sold him had stripped even that away.
He was no longer anyone's son.
He was just a child without a name.
That was the beginning of his hell.
The family who bought him did not see a child. They saw property.
John was fed just enough to survive and worked until his body begged to collapse. He was taught only one rule: obedience. If he followed orders perfectly, he was ignored. If he made even the smallest mistake, punishment followed.
Fingers were sliced without hesitation. Needles were pushed into his skin as if pain were a lesson meant to educate him. Screams were treated as noise. Tears were treated as weakness.
Mercy did not exist in that house.
By the age of nine, John no longer cried. He no longer screamed. Pain had become routine, like breathing. Scars covered his body, but something worse had broken inside him.
One afternoon, after being whipped with a belt for working too slowly, John was sent back to his chores. His back burned, his legs trembled, and his thoughts drifted to the same question that haunted him every single day.
Why am I alive?
Then everything broke.
As John worked in silence, the family's daughter suddenly appeared before him—undressed, unashamed. John froze. Shock ran through his body, but he turned his eyes away. He did nothing. Said nothing. Moved nowhere.
Moments later, a scream shattered the air.
"He tried to rape me!"
The house erupted.
Family members stormed in and found John standing still—confused, terrified, helpless. They didn't ask questions. They didn't listen. Their fists spoke for them. John was beaten until his vision blurred and his body collapsed into the dirt.
Word spread quickly.
The family was respected. Their name carried weight. When the villagers gathered, they believed the girl without hesitation. Stones were thrown. Voices screamed.
"Kill that boy!" "But give him a brutal death!"
The verdict was decided before John could even open his mouth.
The village announced its judgment with cold satisfaction: for five days, John would be tortured. On the sixth day, he would be executed.
Nine years old.
Condemned without proof.
Broken without mercy.
Surname-less.
Voiceless.
Alive… but already buried.
And yet—somehow—John survived.