At twelve years old… things weren't just bad anymore. They started to break.
That night, I was woken up by the screams.
At first, I thought it was another bad dream.
One of those where fear has no shape, only sound.
But this time, it didn't fade. It wasn't a nightmare. It was real.
A raspy voice, full of fury, vibrated through the walls.
"Mom… why is she screaming?" I whispered to myself, voice trembling, as I slowly pushed the door open with my palm, like I was afraid of whatever was behind it.
The first thing I saw was the light.
Then, the blood.
It dripped like the house itself was crying something it couldn't say out loud.
Dark puddles spread across the floor. And in the middle of them… were they.
Him, on top of my mother. Screaming at her. Hitting her. His face twisted, veins bulging, spit hanging from his rage.
Every punch sounded like it broke more than skin. Like it broke the air, time… my head.
"You filthy bitch! Why didn't you tell me you were fucking other scum? Take that, you whore!"
His voice was a rusty saw. A vomit of hate.
My mother tried to shield herself with her arms, weakly, her eyes half-shut from the bruises. She couldn't fight back.
She had nothing to fight with.
He was stronger. Bigger. More monster than man.
And then… something in me lit up.
I don't know if it was courage, fear… or just a desperate spark that didn't want to see the only person who—though she had forgotten me—was still my mother… die.
I ran. Without thinking.
I grabbed the glass jug on my desk —the one I used to keep water in so I wouldn't have to get up at night— and without a second thought, I threw it.
CRASH!
The sound of the glass shattering was like lightning inside me. A sudden explosion. Silence after the storm.
The man collapsed to the floor like a sack of soulless flesh.
I was panting. My hands were shaking.
I didn't understand what I had just done.
But what came next… broke me more than the jug.
My mother crawled toward him. Not me.
She leaned over, touched his face clumsily… and then looked at me.
With horror. With rage.
Like I was the monster.
"What the fuck have you done…? You bastard child…"
Her words cut deeper than any blow ever could.
And then… she came at me.
Her fingers grabbed my hair with a strength I'd never felt. She yanked me down, forcing me to kneel.
"Mom… stop! It hurts!" I screamed, trying to pull away, but her nails were already digging into my scalp.
Her blood dripped on my face. Her breath reeked of cheap perfume and raw hatred.
"Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY?" she screamed like the world was punishing her.
Like I was her punishment.
And in that moment… my mind shut down.
Everything went white. Silence.
Like my brain closed a door it didn't want to open again.
I don't remember anything after that.
I just know that something inside me broke that night. Something that never went back to where it was.
When I opened my eyes, the ceiling wasn't the one from my room.
It was white, with yellowish stains in the corners. And it smelled like dampness… and something old, as if the air had been stored in jars for years.
"Are you awake?" —a deep female voice sounded nearby.
I turned my head with effort. A woman with a long face, her hair tied in a poorly done bun, was looking at me with crossed arms. She wasn't smiling. She didn't seem happy to see me… but she wasn't annoyed either.
"I'm your aunt Erika," she said without softening her voice. "Your mother… isn't in a condition to take care of you right now."
My mouth was dry. The words didn't want to come out.
"Where is she?" —I asked, barely audible.
"With the police. Or with her demons, I don't know. The thing is, for a while, you're going to live here."
"For a while."
I didn't ask more. I didn't even want to know what that meant.
My aunt's house was full of old furniture that seemed heavier than the people who used it.
The TV was small, one of those that still had a wooden frame around it, and it was always tuned to a news channel.
The first few days, they barely spoke to me. I ate in silence, sitting at the corner of the table while my aunt and cousin argued about bills, work, or anything that didn't involve me.
They didn't treat me badly. But neither well.
It was as if I were… just another piece of furniture. Something that was there and that was it.
At night, lying on the bed that used to be my cousin's, I listened to the ticking of the wall clock marking every second. And I thought about my mother.
Not with affection. Not with hatred. I just… thought. Like someone who remembers once losing an umbrella and wonders where it might be now.
Sometimes my aunt would ask:
"Do you want something?"
And I would answer:
"Yes, a new life."
She looked at me weirdly. She didn't understand if I was serious or joking.
Neither did I.
It was in that lukewarm atmosphere, without love but without blows, where something started to change.
There were no hugs. No "I love you." There was nothing to lose if I showed weakness… so I learned not to show it.
When they asked me if I was okay, I answered:
"Perfect, don't you see I'm the luckiest boy in the world?"
And I said it with such a big smile it almost seemed real.
If they scolded me for something, I said:
"Yes, yes, I'm a rebel without a cause… well, without many."
Each sarcastic phrase was like a wall. A brick that separated me from anything that could hurt me again.
The funny thing is that this personality didn't come out of nowhere. I had seen it before. In the afternoons when the TV was on and my aunt watched a cheap romantic soap opera with overly perfect protagonists and exaggerated dialogues.
There was one character in particular, a sarcastic guy, always with the last word, who seemed to mock the world and take nothing seriously. In the middle of all that cheesy drama, Klaus found a model.
And unknowingly, he began to dress himself with that armor of sarcasm.
I didn't become strong. I became… light.
So light that nothing mattered enough to break me again.
At 22, Klaus's routine was an endless cycle of waking up, working, and sleeping.
He got up early, barely wanting to open his eyes, and prepared for another day at the office. The coffee was strong, bitter, and without sugar. Like his mood.
The office was a gray space, with desks lined up like pieces on a chessboard. Klaus occupied one in a corner, far from the windows, far from prying eyes.
There, he was "the new guy," even though he'd been at the company for two years. A stranger disguised as a model employee.
His bosses saw him as just another cog. A resource that could be stretched until it broke.
"Klaus, can you stay a little longer?" the supervisor said without looking up from the monitor.
There was no room for a "no." There never was.
His opinions, when they dared to surface, got lost in the office noise. No one listened. They didn't matter.
He was invisible and that, in a way, was a relief. Not having to fight for a space or recognition. Just survive.
His coworkers called him "bro," "the new guy," or simply didn't mention his name at all.
At night, when he took public transport home, Klaus checked his phone with no real expectation. Nothing really surprised him.
Life was a loop of unrecognized work and unpaid overtime.
Yet, sarcasm remained his shield.
"Yeah, sure, I'll stay. What would you do without my super dedication?" he joked under his breath while staying late.
No one laughed. But he did. Inside.
Because Klaus's true power lay in his calculated indifference.
In knowing that as long as he pretended to be fine, no one would hurt him or force him to fall again.
And so, day after day, Klaus built his own invisible armor, ready to face whatever came.
After another long day, Klaus left the building with a sore back and an exhausted mind. The sunset light stained the streets a tired orange as he walked toward the bus stop, thinking about how monotonous everything was.
But just around the corner, a strange sound broke the calm.
Mocking laughter, mixed with sharp thuds.
Klaus stopped, furrowing his brow, and moved a little closer.
In an alley, a group of teenagers was kicking a golden retriever puppy that was trying to protect itself behind a garbage container.
The animal whimpered, trembling; its big, scared eyes reflected pure fear.
"What the hell are you doing?" Klaus said, his voice dry and loaded with biting irony.
The kids looked at him, surprised, as if they hadn't expected anyone to intervene.
"And what's it to you, old man?" one replied defiantly.
Klaus smiled sarcastically, a smile that wasn't seeking friendship.
"I care because you're kicking someone who can't even defend themselves… sounds familiar, doesn't it?" His tone was cold but with a trace of accumulated frustration.
One of the teenagers stepped closer with a mocking smile.
"And what are you going to do? Save the puppy?"
"No," Klaus said calmly as he crouched down, picking up a stone from the ground. "But I can make you think twice before looking for easy victims."
With a quick motion, he threw the stone near their feet, causing the kids to scatter amid insults and empty threats.
The puppy approached Klaus, wagging its tail weakly.
Klaus looked at it and, for a moment, saw in those frightened eyes a reflection of himself.
"You're not alone, little one. Not this time."
And although the spark of rage was still there, something new was born too: a desire to protect those who couldn't defend themselves.
A reminder that he, once defenseless, could choose not to be a victim forever.