"To me, stories were an escape—a way to reimagine the world, to make sense of its chaos." 

 As far as I recall, my memories are from the night when I was nine. My father abused my mother, and we lived in poverty, the result of his gambling, drinking, and drug addiction. His violence was a direct consequence of our financial strain. He used to call me a leech, as I was living off his money, yet it was my mother’s toil that kept us alive. Because of his abusive behavior and for my better future, my mom was forced to work as a prostitute. One day, she surprised me with a gift—a notebook unlike anything I’d ever seen. It looked precious, like it didn’t belong in our world. 

I asked her, “How did you buy this?” 

She smiled softly and said, “It was a gift. And you’re going to school.” She leaned in close and whispered, “But keep it a secret from your father, okay?” 

 My mom was saving money, hiding it from him so I could attend school. It was easy to sneak off to school as he was never home, gambling here and there and only coming home at night for more money.

 One morning, a professor made a visit to our school, and he said he was some popular writer. He introduced a new word to us: "imagination." He said whatever we can imagine, we can give life to by writing and drawing them. Those were the words that kept ringing in my mind continuously on the way home. When I entered home, slam!!! My dad kicked me against the wall and shouted, "You leech fucker, leeching off my money!!" He started to beat me with a bat. It hurt a lot. I saw my mom jumping to my rescue, begging my father to forgive me. She was saying it was her mistake; please spare my child, instead beat me please. He never stopped; he beat us both to death. About an hour later, he left, spitting on us both. I was barely able to stand. I took my mom and helped her to her bed. She smiled when she saw I could move my body. “You’re a strong kid, Ethan,” she said. It was so sad to see her smiling, as if she was used to it. I cried in her arms, a lot. 

 By morning, we learned of father’s death—a heart attack coupled with kidney failure. My mother didn’t cry. Neither did I. I don’t know about my mom, but I was somehow frustrated, a strange feeling, something like anxiety. I was so confused and angry at the same time. I silently went to my room. While sitting there for about 2-3 hours, I found my eyes on my bag. I took out a notebook and started writing. I started to draw illustrations. As I was doing it, my breaths became heavy, and my heart was racing like crazy. What’s this feeling? Ah, my heart! Amusing, thrilling! I felt as I wrote so many ways, I killed my father and then drew them. That’s how it began. Writing became my escape, my catharsis, my reason to keep going.