Three weeks passed, nobody from the village saw Blasphemy… for nearly a month.
During that time, the villagers started witnessing unusual events…
Maria…
Mark…
Idgar…
Christina…
Four names disowned forever. They are just them… if it was possible to take back their names and leave them in the darkness, they would've done it.
But unfortunately, we have to use something to call them.
Their families disowned them.
Their tribe stoned them.
Nobody wanted them.
They were like a money paper — cut, stepped over — but they still held value… until the day they were burned.
That's the only scenario where money loses its value — when it's burned.
The first week passed like an atom… you don't know where it is, but you know it exists.
The second week came, and as you might say, a lot of rats were resurrected from the ground.
They were there in the first week, but in the second week, they were much more comfortable to wear their skin and show it to everyone.
Before going into details, there are two types of magic or witchcraft in the village.
But put in your head — they aren't real.
So don't get confused.
Forbidden and Sciences.
The forbidden is whatever is not a sign… no, you didn't hear wrong — I said science and sign.
You can say it's everything related to predicting the future — to avoid the problem or solve it before it comes.
The only way to prove you aren't involved in forbidden magic is to predict something.
If it didn't happen — you're dead.
There's a kind of people who have immunity.
Even if they were caught doing not just forbidden magic but the worst thing you can think of — they have one explanation:
> "We are experimenting to understand the case better."
It's as if you need to kill to understand that murder is wrong.
Anyway...
Let's talk about Maria.
Maria was twelve years old.
She was bullied by kids of her own age — every single day.
Why?
Well… we're not in a movie or a series or a book.
They bullied her because it was fun — a good way to pass the time.
"Look at her crying! Haha! Did it hurt? Do you wanna call your mom?"
Those words never left her.
Even if they never said them again, or forgot their routine — she always heard them.
Maria couldn't take it anymore.
She tried to kill herself a couple of times…
But for some reason, she always woke up, treated — her scars gone.
Maria couldn't escape them.
Even death wouldn't let her.
She was alive to be bullied.
That thought was enough to make her shut out the world…
Or in other words, she felt heavier than the ability of the world to carry her.
The bullying continued, but something was missing — the fun they had bullying her disappeared.
One of the kids said, "Mom, she's being weird."
Another said, "Mom, she's scaring us."
Another said, "Why doesn't she cry?"
The worst parents we — and I mean we — ever dealt with are the same ones who, if their kids make a mistake, they don't see it.
They only talk about what you did.
"Why did you hit him? You don't have the right to hit him," they say.
And we say, "But he hit me and threw stones at me first."
The reply will always be something their kid said — and they'll say, "He never lies, I raised him not to lie."
As if.
I wish all of them will suffer for the rest of their lives.
Sometimes, the parents they complain to actually believe the other kid — as if he was their own.
And their real kid will cry for both of his parents to believe him, while they are hitting him… while ignoring or doubting him.
He will cry for his parents forever.
And that's because of a parent who failed as an animal — to shit in the right garbage.
Slap.
The sound woke Maria from her deep thoughts.
One of the mothers' kids had slapped her, saying, "Why don't you play nice?"
Maria looked unbothered by the slap.
She looked at them one by one and said,
> "I hope you" — she was pointing at the mother — "and your family house burn, and the fire catch your hair."
The mother was horrified.
How could such a thing come out of a little girl?
It didn't take long until the whole village was talking about it.
A girl bullying a mother's kid — wishing her house to burn.
The villagers, as a collective, not as individuals, believed that this girl had something bad inside her.
The final nail in the coffin was when a house caught fire.
And in front of everyone's naked eyes, for seven seconds, they saw a woman's hair catch fire.
She panicked, screaming from the pain, before opening a hose near her house to extinguish the flames.
And for some dramatic effect — Maria was standing in front of her.
At the same time, the woman looked up and saw her.
With one word…
Maria was caught and burned the next day.
A witch.
.........
The event of Maria took place in the first week after Blasphemy's disappearance… and ended by the third day of the second week.
On the other hand, Mark's story began two days before Maria's day of oblivion.
He was walking down the street when he saw a kid—covered in bruises, with untreated wounds scattered across the body.
After several failed attempts to get the kid's attention, the child finally stopped and turned to face him. Mark set his bag down. From it, he took out a few things.
To clean the wounds, he first used a bottle of water… then saline… then cotton to dry them. After that, he applied a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, wrapped it with gauze, and finally sealed it with a bandage.
That was for the wounds. For the bruises, he just rubbed some cream over them.
When he finished, he put everything back inside the bag and stood up to leave.
He told the kid, "Watch out next time."
The child didn't say a word. Just took the treatment and kept walking—no gratitude, no appreciation, nothing.
The kid wasn't far when Mark felt something strange in those eyes… something that made his stomach twist.
He couldn't describe the feeling...
it was right on the tip of his tongue—but the words choked in his throat.
Curiosity got the better of him.
He called out, "Hey, what's your name?"
The child turned slightly and said, "Dr. Mark… I'm Maria."
Then she kept walking.
"What…"
You want more?
That's it.
Mark's only mistake was treating a child
That was about to be crucified.....
Two days later… Dr. Mark was walking home from his humble clinic when he noticed a crowded, noisy group of people. He got closer — they were cheering.
There was a fire.
And in the middle of the flames stood a tall wooden post.
Tied to it was a headless body.
Dr. Mark didn't look at the body — something else caught his attention.
A bandage.
One that he had used, wrapped around the cheek of someone he'd seen just two days ago.
If they were burning her body… why was her head resting on the ground?
What did she even do…?
He almost asked them — all of them — what she had done, and why her head wasn't in place.
But the answers came scattered, hollow:
"It's a good riddance."
"She was a bad person."
Or something in between — words that didn't matter.
Because while they spoke, something darker began to manifest — first in their hearts, then in their minds.
It didn't take long for a new rumor to be cooked.
"There was a suspicious man asking questions…"
"Oh, they say he's a doctor."
"He's got a light mustache, brushes his hair to the side."
"You mean Mark? He's a good doctor."
"Did the witch play with his mind?"
"Have we lost another sane man to madness?"
"What should we do?"
"The witch left her print behind — we must erase her existence from our world," they said to each other.
It wasn't one or two conversations — it was the whole village.
And they had already made up their minds.
It took two days for the rumor to spread.
One more to prepare for the ceremony.
And finally…
the day came when Mark noticed
how beautiful the world looked
Is when his eyeballs were on fire.....
.....
Idgar's story is a story…
But first, we must understand who Idgar was.
Idgar was raised in a family of four.
His family was rich, middle-class, and poor — all at once.
He never knew who he really was. His father always talked about how grateful they should be, how blessed they were to live as they did.
Whenever his father bought them something, he would say, "It's original."
One time he gave Idgar pants with two stripes and said, "They're Adidas — original."
Idgar was raised not to lie or steal.
But every night at dinner, he was fed lies — and lies — and more lies.
He was beaten for worthless reasons.
One day, the whole family gathered at his grandmother's house.
They were eating an egg omelet.
Idgar was still a child, too young to remember his exact age.
I don't know about your table manners, but in Idgar's family, nobody had their own plate. They all ate from one large dish on the floor, as if there were no barrier between them.
His mother cooked the eggs on a stainless-steel plate and served them just as they were, straight from the stove.
Idgar wanted to eat, but the plate was far away.
After many tries, he gave up and got upset — he was still a kid, after all.
His father finally noticed. He tore a small piece of bread, dipped it into the eggs, and said softly, "Come now, eat. Don't be like that."
Then suddenly, he stood up and began kicking Idgar — shouting at him to eat the egg.
Idgar screamed and cried, his mouth open — and his father shoved the bread into it, forcing him to chew.
Tears slipped down Idgar's cheeks and fell into the bread in his mouth.
He didn't want to eat. But when his father came back and shouted once, Idgar swallowed — literally swallowed his tears.
Later, he was sent to another country for a better education.
A country on the edge of civil war.
There, he learned to care for his mother and brothers, and he swore that no one else would suffer as he did.
When he returned home, he never raised a hand against his brothers like his father once did — but he still yelled. Even as he did, he wondered why he couldn't stop.
He became the one who cooked for his family when his mother could no longer bear living under the same roof as his father.
He wasn't perfect, but he tried.
Whenever his father started talking, Idgar left the house — anything to avoid hearing his endless rants about how terrible Idgar's mother was.
"She betrayed me," his father said.
"She bought a motorcycle behind my back.
And you — my own son — you betrayed me too. You didn't tell me. You're just like her…"
It was all nonsense. But when his father said, "My only mistake was choosing your mother,"
Idgar clenched his teeth until his jaw ached.
He kept telling himself: It doesn't matter. I still have my brothers.
His father had taken a second wife — one he always called an angel.
You know what's strange about people like that?
If you finish their sentence — because you've heard the same story a hundred times — they'll just start it all over again.
So Idgar learned to stay quiet. The less he interrupted, the faster it ended.
Then one day, the second wife cooked lunch — soup and spaghetti.
For once, everyone had their own plate.
Idgar sat beside her, on her right. The spoon and fork were on the opposite side, out of his reach.
Everyone started eating.
His father finished half his plate. His brothers finished theirs and went for seconds.
And Idgar was still waiting.
Finally, the second wife noticed and handed him a fork.
In that moment, memories came flooding back —
How many times he had fed his brothers before eating himself.
How he had always given them spoons and forks first because he cared.
And now… they couldn't even see him.
They looked right through him — as if he didn't exist.
They all finished and left the table.
Idgar sat there with a single fork — and without a heart.
He stood up, holding the fork in his hand.
Walked out the door.
And kept walking… until he reached an old workshop with a locked door.
He broke the lock.
Inside were tools.
To the left, a red can.
He poured it over himself.
Then struck a match.
Flames swallowed him whole.
He threw the can away and ran screaming into the street — screams mixed with laughter — until everything went quiet.
And when it was over, his head lay burning on the ground.
Is this a curse… or something else?