The God Who Watched
Charles learned one thing early in life:
faith could be more frightening than a knife.
He was six when his father first told him that he had to watch.
Not because it was important.
But because looking away meant doubt.
The man kneeling in front of them was crying.
He kept repeating the same things—that he was coming home from work, that he had a family, that he had done nothing wrong.
Charles did not remember his face.
He remembered something else—the tremble in his voice.
That was how people sounded when they did not understand why they were about to die.
"He's not human," his mother said quietly.
Her voice was calm. Almost gentle.
"He's a creature. They always pretend."
His father fired.
The snow turned red.
Charles did not scream.
His father covered his mouth before he could even breathe in.
"Remember this," he said. "The world is filthy. We cleanse it."
That night, Charles could not fall asleep for a long time.
He did not pray.
He simply waited for someone to come and say that this had all been a mistake.
No one came.
The Attic
He lived in the attic.
That was his parents' decision—for safety.
He was not allowed to go out during the day.
At night—only with them, under supervision.
The attic was low, with a slanted ceiling and a small window near the roof.
Bars covered the window.
The only thing he was allowed to do freely was read.
Books were everywhere.
Old ones. New ones. Strange ones.
Religion. Medicine. "Creatures." Hunting.
Charles read everything.
And the more he read, the stronger the feeling grew—
something didn't add up.
The books contradicted each other too often.
One author claimed vampires feared silver.
Another said silver was useless against them.
Some described werewolves as cursed humans.
Others—as a separate species.
But whenever he tried to ask questions, his mother would smile and say:
"Doubt is the voice of creatures."
After that, he stopped asking.
His Sister
He had a sister.
Younger than him.
Small.
Quiet.
She liked sitting beside him and listening as he read aloud, even if she didn't understand the words.
Sometimes she would fall asleep with her head on his shoulder.
One day, they took her away.
They said she was chosen.
That God had heard their family.
That it was an honor.
Charles did not understand what was happening at first.
He understood later—when her bed remained empty.
He asked questions.
He waited.
He prayed—for the first time in his life.
God was silent.
When he finally realized she would never return, it was already too late.
From that day on, he hated the word "chosen."
Lessons of Faith
When he turned nine, his parents decided it was time.
"You must prove your devotion," his father said.
"God does not love the weak," his mother added.
The first time, he refused.
They beat him.
Not in the face.
Not where marks would remain.
His father knew where to strike.
His mother knew how long to wait.
They locked him up.
Left him alone.
Waited for him to "come to his senses."
The second time, he refused again.
The third time as well.
The fourth time, he agreed.
Not because he believed.
But because he understood—
if he did not become like them, he would simply cease to exist.
Pretending
He learned how to wear a face.
How to say the right words.
How to praise a god he hated.
He did everything "correctly."
Sometimes his parents looked at him with pride.
Sometimes—with relief.
That was when he realized something important:
they had relaxed.
He did not count those who died.
He did not look into their eyes.
He knew only one thing—
they were bound.
They did not resist.
It was different from what would come later.
And he remembered that.
Escape
One day, he asked his mother to braid his hair.
She was surprised.
But she smiled.
That night, he held the hairpin in his trembling hands, afraid he might drop it.
The locks did not give in immediately.
He felt no joy.
No fear.
Only emptiness.
When he finally left the house, the world felt too vast.
And too quiet.
In the morning, he called the police.
"At the address…" his voice trembled. "There are… murderers."
He did not call them his parents.