The pain was relentless, a searing, inescapable brand that burned with every slight movement. It felt like a branding iron had been pressed against my flesh, each letter carved into my skin still raw and fresh. I lay still, staring at the dark ceiling, willing myself to sleep, but every shift of my body sent a sharp, biting reminder of my wounds.
"Okay… this isn't working." I muttered, frustration lacing my voice. "I can't ignore it enough to fall asleep, no matter how tired I am."
Sighing, I forced myself to sit up, wincing as the motion sent another jolt of pain through my back. I had to do something—anything—to dull it. I decided to start searching for cloth and rubbing alcohol, beginning with my bedroom.
It wasn't much of a bedroom. The space had originally been a large closet before being repurposed for me. The walls felt suffocatingly close, and my bed barely fit against one side of the cramped room, a small desk shoved into the opposite corner. But the window—at least I had that.
Through the glass, I could see the sprawling skyline of Sinspire, the city flickering with neon hues of pink and blue. It was a city I both loved and loathed. The monorail sped past Horizon Tower in the distance, a sleek and futuristic structure standing proudly among the skyscrapers. It was the headquarters of the Nephilim Suppression Squad (N.S.S.), a place where the so-called heroes of the world gathered to fight crime.
And then, on the other side of the skyline, looming like a castle of judgment, was Eden Academy. Even from here, its towering gothic spires and pristine walls seemed to mock me. A Catholic school, run by Patrick Black—Aaron's father, the real devil in a priest's robes.
"It's annoying and unfair," I muttered as I turned back to my search, heading to my closet.
Mama had handmade black socks for my school uniform not too long ago, and I remembered seeing scraps of fabric left over. It took some digging, but I finally spotted a shoebox pushed into the far corner of the top shelf.
I stood on my tiptoes, reaching for it, but the moment I stretched my arms, pain flared up my spine like a knife twisting deep into my skin.
"Hiss… ow!" I gasped, quickly lowering my arm. "Fine, no using my arms… I'll use something else."
Closing my eyes, I called for my power, focusing on the box. A low hum vibrated in the air, subtle but present, as the shoebox trembled before sliding forward and falling neatly into my hands.
"For once, it's listening to me," I said with a dry chuckle, shaking my head at my own inconsistency.
With the fabric in hand, I made my way to the bathroom, heading straight for the medicine cabinet. The shelves were cluttered with empty pill bottles, some knocked over, others gathering dust.
I picked one up, skimming the label:
Kristopher I. White
50mg Lumateperone, 100mg Risperidone
Date filled: November 8, 2011
Prescribed by: Dr. Gabriel Sinclair
I stared at it for a moment before setting it back down.
"Both of these bottles have been empty for almost two and a half months… good," I muttered to myself. "I never needed them anyway. I'm not crazy."
Shaking the thought away, I reached behind the bottles and grabbed the rubbing alcohol, then sat on the edge of the bathtub. I took a deep breath, steeling myself.
"This is going to hurt," I muttered. "A lot."
I poured the alcohol onto the rag and pressed it against my exposed skin. The sting was immediate, spreading like wildfire through my back. My muscles tensed, and my left hand clenched against the tub's rim, knuckles turning white as I fought against the urge to cry out.
The grooves of each letter burned as I cleaned the wounds, the alcohol sinking deep into the raw flesh. I could feel every cut, every cruel stroke Aaron had carved into me. My vision blurred as I finished the cleaning with cold water, hoping to numb the pain.
Then, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
It was worse than I thought—the word PSYCHO was angry and swollen, surrounded by bruises blooming in shades of red and purple where they had beaten me.
"Psycho…" I whispered.
The word echoed in my mind, burrowing itself deeper into my identity, like it belonged there. It wasn't just a label anymore—it was who they wanted me to be.
Before I could fall further into my thoughts, I was hit with a sudden wave of emotion—raw, unfiltered, and overpowering. My head buzzed with static, a white noise pulsing through my skull.
Mama was home.
And she wasn't in a good mood.
I hurried back to my room, shoving away my pain and pulling on a red turtleneck sweater, black knee-length pants, and my crucifix. It wasn't just for comfort—it was to hide the injuries. I had to look presentable, and had to avoid upsetting her.
As I finished, I listened in, focusing my power on her as the white noise transformed into words.
"I'm gonna have to work overtime to meet the deadlines for this month," she muttered.
The words were exhausted, bitter. Her thoughts were worse—a chaotic storm of frustration and resentment.
Mama was tall and slender, her long black hair falling in waves down her back, though tonight it looked slightly disheveled. Dark circles framed her deep brown eyes, a sign of endless nights of stress. Her black dress, paired with a red brooch bearing her company's logo, looked crisp and professional, but her tired expression betrayed her exhaustion.
"Kris, I'm home, and I brought takeout for dinner tonight. Come set the table."
Her voice was sharp, direct, with a hint of bitterness that made my stomach tighten.
"Y-Yes, ma'am. I'll be there soon."
I inhaled sharply, forcing myself to straighten up, ignoring the pain in my back. I couldn't show weakness. Heading downstairs, I kept my steps careful, keeping my movements natural so she wouldn't notice anything.
Mama didn't need another problem right now.
While setting the table, I called for my power once more, pressing just enough force onto the TV's power button to switch it on. The news channel played immediately.
"Breaking News. Our young local heroes, The Shepherds, have successfully detained a member of R.O.T., a notorious group of Nephilim that has been wreaking havoc since the previous Calamity Battle on October 30th. The captured member, Lady Overdose, was caught attempting to infiltrate Samsarous Hospital before being taken down by Azureflame and Martyr."
I looked up.
Azureflame was tall and athletic, dressed in a blue, black, and gold uniform. His locks ignited in blue flames, and his black mask covered most of his face, save for the glowing embers of his eyes. The golden patterns on his suit signified his leadership.
Martyr, in contrast, was petite, wrapped in a red and white leather suit, her white cape embroidered with a symbol of a chalice filled with the blood of Christ.
Mama scoffed. "If they can handle that lunatic, then why is a gang of bikers still running around causing trouble?"
"Biker gang?" I asked, taking my seat.
"Yes, the Phantoms. Some delinquents are trashing businesses and causing more work for—me," she said, rubbing her temples in frustration.
But then her tone shifted.
"That's not what I wanted to talk about. I got a call from one of your teachers today… Mr. Stevens told me about the condition you were in. And that he drove you home."
My breath caught in my throat.
The warmth of the takeout food, the hum of the television in the background—everything around me faded as my mother's words settled like ice in my veins.
My mind raced. How much had he told her? How much did she already assume? I could feel her eyes drilling into me, searching for cracks in whatever excuse I might come up with.
I swallowed hard. Stay calm. Stay in control.
"Mama, I—"
She cut me off, her tone sharp. "Where were you, Kristopher?"
I hesitated. "I… was in the locker room."
"The locker room?" she repeated, her voice laced with suspicion. "And what exactly happened in the locker room that left you in such a condition that your teacher felt the need to personally drive you home?"
My fingers curled into my lap. My heart pounded against my ribs, each beat like a warning drum.
"I—"
She didn't wait for my response. She reached down, yanked the takeout bag off the table, and tossed it aside. The sound of it hitting the floor made me flinch.
"You're fighting, aren't you?" she accused, her dark eyes narrowing. "That's what this is, isn't it?"
"No, Mama—"
She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "Don't lie to me!"
I flinched at the sharpness of her voice.
"I work all day, every day just to keep us afloat, and you're out there getting into trouble? Is that it? Running around, getting into fights, making a spectacle of yourself?"
My mouth felt dry. "I wasn't fighting, I swear—"
"Then what the hell is this!?"
She stormed toward the kitchen trash bin, yanked it open, and pulled out my soaked, ruined gym clothes—the ones Aaron and his goons had thrown away after drenching them in sports drinks. She held them up between her fingers like they were filthy, disgraceful things, her lip curling in disgust.
"Mr. Stevens told me you looked like a wreck when he found you, and then I found this in the trash," she hissed. "Do you think I'm stupid, Kristopher?"
I clenched my jaw.
"You think I don't know what this is?" she continued, shaking the ruined clothes. "You're getting into fights at school! Probably running with a bad crowd—maybe even picking fights yourself! And now a teacher has to escort you home like some kind of delinquent?"
I gritted my teeth. "I didn't get into a fight."
She scoffed, tossing the clothes back into the trash. "Right. So, what then? You tripped and fell into someone's fist? Or was it the Holy Spirit that left you looking like a disaster?"
I felt my stomach twist. She was pushing me—pushing for an answer I couldn't give her.
I couldn't tell her.
If I did, if I even hinted at the truth, she wouldn't believe me. She would just see another excuse, another fabrication from the troubled son she thought she had.
"Say something," she demanded.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
She exhaled sharply, crossing her arms. "Of course. You never say anything, do you? Just sit there and sulk, acting like the whole damn world is against you."
Her words cut deep, sharper than any blade.
She turned away, shaking her head. "Do you know what people already think of us, Kristopher? Do you have any idea the kind of rumors I have to endure every damn day because of our family name?"
I did. I knew all too well.
We weren't just nobodies in Sinspire—we were tainted nobodies. The name "White" didn't carry respect; it carried whispers, side glances, assumptions. We were the subject of news articles, of hushed conversations between coworkers, of neighbors who only spoke to us out of obligation.
"I already have to fight to keep my job as it is," she continued, her voice laced with exhaustion. "But do you know what will get me fired? A son who's out there getting into fights. A son who's proving every last person right about what kind of family we are."
My hands trembled under the table, nails digging into my palms.
"I didn't get into a fight," I said again, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Oh? Then explain why you came home covered in God knows what, and why your teacher was so concerned about you."
I clenched my jaw. She wasn't going to let this go.
"I was in the locker room after school," I said slowly, carefully. "Some people decided to mess with me, that's all. They thought it'd be funny to trash my clothes, and I had nothing else to wear home. That's why Mr. Stevens offered me a ride."
Her eyes narrowed. "And who, exactly, are these people?"
I hesitated.
She pounced on that. "Ah. So now you don't want to talk?"
I gritted my teeth. "Even if I told you, it wouldn't change anything."
Her gaze darkened. "Excuse me?"
"You wouldn't do anything," I muttered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "You'd just tell me to suck it up. To deal with it."
The room fell into silence.
She took a slow breath, her expression unreadable. "You think that's what I do? That I just let people walk all over us?"
I didn't answer.
She let out a bitter laugh. "I bust my ass to keep this household running, to keep food on this table, and you have the audacity to act like I don't care?"
"That's not what I said."
"But that's what you meant."
I swallowed, my fists tightening under the table.
She shook her head, her voice lowering. "You keep acting like you're the only one suffering, Kris. But you're not. We're both struggling. And if you think for one second that I don't have enough on my plate, you're dead wrong."
I looked down, my stomach twisting.
She rubbed her temples, exhaling sharply. "You're lucky I have to work early tomorrow. Otherwise, we'd still be talking about this."
Her words were final, like a slammed door.
She reached for the takeout bag she had tossed aside earlier, setting it back on the table. "Eat your food and go to bed," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "And don't ever let me hear about something like this again."
I didn't move.
She turned away, already done with me, already retreating to her room for the night.
I sat there, staring at my hands, my breathing uneven.
Outside, the city of Sinspire kept moving. The monorail still ran. The towers still stood. The N.S.S. still hunted Nephilim. And Eden Academy still loomed in the distance, waiting for me to return.
The world kept spinning, unchanged.
But inside, something in me felt like it had cracked.
End Of Chapter