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

As far back as I can remember, my memories begin at nine years old. We lived in a small, rotting rented room that smelled like mold, cheap whiskey, and cigarette ash. My father called it “home.” In reality, it was just a shelter where he brought back debt, anger, and filth. My father abused my mother, and we lived in poverty because 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 if I was living off his money—yet it was my mother’s work that kept us alive. Because of his abusive behavior, and for the sake of my future, my mother was forced to work, she worked in secret, selling parts of her dignity piece by piece just so I could stay alive. One day, she surprised me with a gift—a notebook unlike anything I had 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, “you’re going to school.” Then she leaned in close and whispered, “But keep it a secret from your father, okay?” 

My mother was saving money, hiding it from him, so I could attend school. It was easy to sneak away because he was never home—always gambling somewhere—only returning late at night for more money. 

One morning, a professor visited our school and introduced himself as a popular writer. He taught us a new word: "imagination." He told us imagination could make anything real—that pages could turn thoughts into existence. Those words kept ringing in my head. On my way home, I opened the door smiling—believing maybe my world could finally shift. 

Instead— 

Slam. 

My father grabbed me by the shirt, threw me against the wall, and kicked me across the floor. 

“You LEECH! FUCKER! You useless LEECH living off MY money!” 

Then the bat came down again… and again… and again… until I couldn’t even scream—only choke on broken sobs. 

My mother threw herself between us, pleading, begging, offering her own body as a shield. 

Her voice trembled but remained gentle as she said, “Beat me instead… please… spare my child…” 

He beat her anyway. 

For an hour, he destroyed us. 

We didn’t die. 

But something in both of us broke that night. 

Eventually he left—spitting on us—like we were less than human. I could barely stand. I dragged my mother to her bed. Her bones felt like they could snap in my hands. She smiled when she realized I could still move. “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 my father’s death—a heart attack coupled with kidney failure. My mother didn’t cry. Neither did I. I don’t know what she felt, but I felt nothing. Not relief. Not rage. Something… hollow. Something twisted. I went to my room silently. I sat still for two or three hours until my eyes fell on my school bag. I took out the notebook and started writing. I began drawing illustrations. As I did, my breathing became heavy, and my heart started racing. 

What is this feeling? 

Ah… my heart. 

Amusing. Thrilling. 

With every page, my pulse got louder… faster… more alive. I wrote countless ways I killed my father—and then drew them. 

 It was terrifying. 

It was thrilling. 

That was when imagination stopped being escape. 

It became power. 

That night wasn’t only the night my childhood ended. 

It was the night I realized stories could kill.