THE FUNEREAL OF A DEMON

There laid an almost dead child in that abonded area. Well despite being innocent his pleads and the tremendous era of torture had finally come to an end well the real devuls the humans in fascade remained there condiereing themleseevs heroes of some story as they managed to get rid of this evil /// bu reality stood far from this cheapheaded trick of theirs … his crems and bloddshed all had gon silent it made me cry as I could only view that wole true situation of how the lil boy had been treated and met that tragic fate …

For I am no ordinary watcher. I am Angel Krish, and I witnessed the truth of his pain. I saw what they did.
And I cannot—will not—let this be the end.

The wind grew colder.
The kind that slices through bone—not skin.

As the crowd turned to leave, satisfied with their duty done, something stopped them.

A mirror.
Not grand. Not glowing.
Just a fractured thing—iron-framed, smoky glass, lying where the boy’s heart once beat.

No one placed it there.
No one remembered bringing it.

Yet there it stood, heavy with meaning. Ofc I had placed it there to showcase them the reality fo hat they had done . the butchers son came forward with the thoughts to unfold the mystery of the itemthat will change their futures now .

But before thr fingers touched the frame , the mirror shivered

And then showed him

Not who he was but what he had done

It played his laughter It played his laughter, cruel and childish, as he threw stones at the boy’s window. It showed his father, proud of the lesson he’d passed down. It showed the look of fear in the demon child’s eyes—not of death, but of being known.

They didn’t just hurt him.
They destroyed him.

When the villagers labeled him a demon, they gave themselves permission.
Permission to torture. To desecrate. To violate.
It started with words—cruel, cutting, inescapable.
But words weren't enough for them.

One night, under a sky veiled in stormclouds, they dragged him to the edge of the woods.
No trial, no mercy. Just hate.
Four grown boys, emboldened by the silence of the village elders, tore the clothes from his frail body.
They tied his arms to the dead tree — the same one behind the chapel where offerings were once made.

There, under the hollow moon, they forced themselves onto him.