Chapter Text
Somewhere in England.
September 1985.
History class was boring.
Naturally, far too boring.
The teacher droned on from his desk about some ancient war that no one really seemed to care about.
Around him, several students slept at their desks. Others talked amongst themselves without even bothering to lower their voices. Two boys in the back wearing rugby jerseys argued about this afternoon's match. A girl painted her nails under her desk. And another was passionately making out with a boy in the back row.
The teacher did nothing about this.
He seemed just as tired of the world as everyone else.
I, meanwhile, pretended to pay attention to a class the teacher apparently didn't realize he had already given last week.
I had my notebook open and my head tilted at the exact angle to feign academic interest, but I wasn't taking notes.
I was writing about what I would do in the future, if there even was any future left for me.
Possible jobs.
Universities.
How much money I need to get the hell out.
London was crossed out twice.
And right in the middle of the page, underlined so many times, was:
What will I do in the future?
I stared at the phrase for a few seconds.
What will I do in the future?. I didn't have goals or dreams big enough to cling to; I thought it would be enough if I could simply escape my father's house and never return. But after that, what came next? I had no answer, and I didn't know if it was okay that it didn't worry me at all.
Then came a knock at the door.
Three sharp raps echoing against the old wood of that opaque door.
It was loud enough to make everyone stop whatever they were doing. Even I was one of them.
The teacher stopped speaking mid-sentence. His boredom-filled voice called out in response.
"Come in."
The headmistress opened the door. A woman who had spent years running this state institution, which prives itself on being the best in the county when, in reality, it was the only one.
And behind her stood two police officers. Two tall men with expressions of evident discomfort that seemed to broadcast they would rather be anywhere else but here.
The entire classroom fell silent.
The headmistress’s old high heels—which had probably cost a fortune years ago—clicked as she walked across the classroom, finally stopping right in front of my desk.
Her face wore a clearly fake smile of blatant awkwardness. Her old voice, ruined by smoking too many cigarettes, was directed at me.
"Mr. Snape, I need you to come with me."
No softness, no gentleness; it was simply an order.
My stomach tightened instantly.
I was not a person who usually frequented the headmistress's office, let alone accompanied by police officers. Which meant something serious had happened.
I stuffed the notebook into my backpack without a word and stood up.
Everyone watched me as I walked toward the door.
Which was strange. I wasn't someone who drew many glances; I wasn't attractive or interesting, nor did I have any exceptional qualities. I was odd, quiet, and reserved—the perfect target for the usual bullies. Though honestly, after so many years, by this point I didn't care all that much.
As I stepped out, I got a better look at the officers' faces, and I recognized them immediately.
Friends of my father.
Or rather… drinking buddies.
I had seen them too many times sitting next to my father in bars filled with cigarette smoke and cheap beer, laughing like animals until they fell asleep on the tables.
Neither of them looked me in the eye.
And that made my chest feel even heavier.
I still didn't know exactly what had happened.
But something was wrong.
Very wrong.
As we walked down the hallway, I felt an old fear slowly creep up my throat.
Maybe my father had finally been fired. He would undoubtedly be furious. Should I even go home today?
Or maybe—
The headmistress opened the door, its harsh, sharp screech echoing through the hallway and cutting off my thoughts.
The place was cluttered with paperwork, coffee stains on the carpet, and piled-up folders. There was an empty coffee mug on the desk and an old lamp that flickered every few seconds.
"Sit down, Mr. Snape."
The woman pointed to the cheap chair in front of the desk, which looked like it had seen better days.
I obeyed in silence and sat down.
The officers closed the door behind me.
The click echoed too loudly. Like a sentence.
The headmistress clasped her hands over the desk. She looked uncomfortable. As if she were searching for the way to drop the words she had for me.
The silence that followed was so long and awkward, it felt like she was giving me time to process something she didn’t dare tell me. Until finally, she spoke.
"Mr. Snape… your father has murdered your mother."
At those words, I felt the room close in on me. It seemed as though my mind had trapped itself solely around that sentence, echoing violently in my head.
Your father murdered your mother.
My mother is dead.
I had no idea how to process all the emotions cornered inside me. I wanted to scream, to cry, to speak, or perhaps ask why?
I knew my mother would die eventually; we all die after all, don't we? But her… despite everything, I expected her to never leave. She never protected me from my father, nor did she do anything for me, but I still loved her in some strange way. She was so weak, predictable, and doomed by the love she had for my horrible father. Her love for him was so strong that she wasn't even capable of loving me.
The noise around me faded, replaced by a silent white noise.
My mind and my gaze were lost somewhere on the wall. I couldn't hear the words the woman in front of me was saying. Until someone behind me placed a hand on my shoulder.
I flinched at the touch, brushing the hand away roughly and snapping my gaze backward.
The officer looked at me with something resembling pity, guilt… shame, mostly.
Deep down, he knew what my father did to my mother and to me. But weren't he and my father coworkers? A domestic abuse report could ruin my father's career as an officer, so like a good friend, he helped cover it all up.
"Are you alright, lad?"
The man's voice sounded gravelly, perhaps from the countless hours spent in that bar alongside my father.
Was I alright? CLEARLY I WAS NOT ALRIGHT. I wanted to blame him, to hate him—I wanted to feel and do so many things. To blame him for letting my father go unpunished despite what he did to me and my mother.
I wanted so badly to blame him, but at the end of the day, I knew it wasn't his fault. I was the guilty one. I was the coward for not standing up to my father. There were so many things I could have done instead of just thinking about them. If maybe I had been stronger, my mother would still be alive.
I could barely murmur a few words.
"How?"
How did she die?
The officers exchanged uncomfortable glances. Then the one who had spoken to me before finally answered.
"It was an argument at first… your mother asked your father for a divorce… he didn't take it well. He used his service weapon and shot her twice."
Divorce?
I felt like letting out a laugh of sheer disbelief, but I couldn't.
I just sat there, staring once again at a fixed point on the faded wall while the buzzing of the lamp filled the entire room.
Yet, despite everything, a horrible part of me was not surprised.
And that was the worst thing.
That deep down… I had always known my mother was braver than I could ever be in my entire life.
The next few hours were a whirlwind of explanations and procedures that I couldn't process. They mentioned something about a sentence, me being a minor, being a year away from adulthood, and finally, a foster home.
The last thing my mind remembered clearly were the headmistress's empty condolences, the sound of the bell announcing the end of the day, and watching my old shoes make noise as I followed those officers out of that old school.
The hallway was packed with people; the murmurs and the sound of voices were remarkably loud.
Clearly, I couldn't expect this to go unnoticed, especially when being led by two officers. All eyes turned toward me—countless more glances than I had received in my entire life.
I once read a line in a book about how humans can be incredibly curious, always driven by a hunger for knowledge. I hadn't paid much attention to it before, but now it made perfect sense.
I never knew how much I had wished to have died until this day.
When I managed to regain some awareness, I was inside a police cruiser whose sirens produced a chorus that forced me to confront the situation I was currently in. As I watched the houses and autumn trees pass by through the window, I wondered if my mother had thought of me before she died.
My gaze drifted down to the old brown trousers I was wearing. The only thing I had left of her were these torn trousers that she, for the first time as her sole act of love or affection toward me, had helped patch up. I was never good at sewing, but that didn't stop me from having to do it out of sheer necessity anyway; my mother wouldn't help me, and my father would give me a beating before spending any money.
I never understood my mother when I was young, and I think even today, after her death, I still couldn't comprehend her.
Now the question that haunted my mind echoed even louder: *What will I do in the future?* My current future was uncertain. If I no longer had a house to escape from, nor a father to fear, what was I supposed to do? Live?
It was quite funny, considering that everything I had done up until today was just survive. But if there was nothing left, then what was I supposed to do?
Finally, the car stopped. My gaze through the window drifted toward a small, somewhat old house covered in leaves in the yard, but undoubtedly better than the house where I used to live.
An officer stepped out of the cruiser and then opened the door for me.
The officer couldn't even look at me until we finally walked up to the door of that old house. The man tried to ring the old doorbell, which apparently didn't work, then with a slow movement, knocked on the door three times.
There was no sound or movement for a few seconds. Until the old door opened with a sharp creak, revealing a noticeably elderly woman with glasses and white-gray hair falling across her wrinkled face.
The woman looked at the officer, then looked at me. Her gaze evaluated me from head to toe, taking in my old trousers patched up in several places along with the brown jacket I wore—inherited from my father—which, despite being several years old, surprisingly still served its purpose.
After a few long minutes, the woman addressed the officer in a flat voice.
"Domestic abuse or drugs?"
The officer couldn't answer because the woman cut him off.
"If it's drugs, I won't let him in. Last time, that brat they brought stole from me to buy more of his substances."
The woman repeated without waiting.
The officer shook his head.
"His mother is dead, and his father is charged with murder."
Without caring much, the woman nodded and stepped aside, leaving a space to enter through that old door, before finally looking at me.
"Get in."
Her emotionless voice rang out.
As I was about to enter, the officer spoke, halting my slow steps.
"Your personal belongings will be brought over in a few hours."
I stopped in the doorway and simply said, "No need. It's not like I have many things of my own there anyway."
And it was the truth. Aside from clothes, I had nothing else in that house that could be considered mine. Not even books, because there was no money to buy any.
When I finally stepped inside, the woman closed the door without waiting, leaving the two of us alone in that old house.
The interior was cluttered and dirty, with visible cobwebs in some corners.
You could see piled-up dishes on the living room table. Newspapers scattered in mounds on the floor. And a cat sleeping on the old sofa. A very ugly one, without a doubt.
Without looking at me, the woman walked over to the sofa where the cat was and sat down next to that ugly thing, making the couch let out a slight groan. She then grabbed the TV remote and turned it on.
The old TV showed static with a loud static burst before revealing four men playing together in a simple studio, illuminated by yellowish spotlights that barely pierced the darkness of the background. There were guitars, a drum kit, and an old wooden piano surrounded by messy cables and metallic microphones.
The man sitting at the piano tilted his head slightly toward the microphone before singing in a soft, raspy voice:
"Hey Jude, don't make it bad… take a sad song and make it better…"
I gripped the backpack straps on my shoulders tighter, waiting for the woman to give me some instruction.
While stroking the ugly cat with her eyes glued to the screen, the woman spoke.
"Your room is upstairs at the end of the hall. Don't touch or steal anything. If something goes missing, you're going straight to the orphanage. I don't like noise, and I don't like mischief."
She finally glanced at Severus out of the corner of her eye, as if wanting to check something, before returning her gaze to the screen with a look of distaste.
"And take a bath. I think there are clothes your size in one of the drawers in the bedroom."
With a soft murmur, I muttered a thank you and headed for the stairs.
The stairs creaked with every step I took. As I went up, I could see a lot of frames around the walls; they were all pictures of the woman's ugly cat.
Reaching the top, I saw that the wall was yellowish in some places, and there were a few doors that were probably locked. Without paying much attention, I headed to the room at the end of the hall as the woman had instructed.
Opening the door, I took in the interior. Brown wallpaper covered the walls, making it look old and neglected. The bed had no stains, though it was unmade, as if someone had slept there before. Next to it was a small wooden chest of drawers with two drawers. There was a desk by the window; it was ugly and looked like it would break at any moment with all the cracks it had, but as long as I could use it, I didn't see much of a problem.
The floor was covered in dust and small dust bunnies, while several cobwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling. At the back of the room was a door that led to a small bathroom. The walls had a horrible, worn-out greenish tint, and the sink was rusty in some parts, but even so, it looked much cleaner than the rest of the room.
Then I remembered the woman's words and opened the small chest of drawers. In the first drawer were two old pairs of trousers that surprisingly had no torn sections, and a somewhat large brown sweater. In the second drawer were brown pajamas.
I set out to bathe, more out of necessity than desire. The water took several seconds to come out, and when it finally did, it fell lukewarm and uneven, accompanied by a metallic clanking that echoed through the small bathroom. I stood still for a few moments under the shower, watching the water wash away the dirt and accumulated dust of the day, slowly disappearing down the rusty drain.
I didn't want to think too much.
Because every time I did, I ended up returning to the same place.
To my mother.
To her submissive personality before my father. To her eternal silences. To the way she avoided looking at me sometimes, as if she were exhausted even from existing. I had spent years trying to understand her, looking for some explanation for her behavior, for her inexplicable love for my father, for that heavy sadness that seemed to hunt her even on quiet days.
But I never succeeded.
And now it was too late to do so.
The thought made my stomach churn.
I closed my eyes tightly as the water kept falling over my head, hoping the noise would be enough to drown out my thoughts.
I didn't want to think about the school either.
I knew perfectly well how rumors worked. By the next morning, everyone would know some exaggerated version of the cause of my mother's death; some true, others completely made up. It didn't matter. People always found something to watch, something to comment on and mock in hushed voices when they thought you weren't listening.
When I finished bathing, I put on the old pajamas. They were slightly big on me and smelled of dampness mixed with cheap detergent, but they were comfortable. Afterward, I sat on the unmade bed, staring out the window as the sky began to slowly darken.
I waited.
For night to fall.
For the world to be dark enough so I wouldn't have to think about anything.
Three weeks later…
I had reached a strange coexistence with Mrs. Thompson. She was bitter, obnoxious, and seemed to live solely for that horrible cat that always watched me from some corner of the house as if it were judging me too. Even so, her behavior was acceptable. I tolerated her, and she seemed to tolerate me.
That was enough.
We ate breakfast every morning at the old wooden table in the kitchen. I would spread butter on a somewhat stale piece of bread while she flipped through the newspaper with an expression of constant disappointment, complaining about modern society and, especially, the youth.
"Everyone is useless nowadays," she muttered one morning without looking up from the paper.
I didn't contradict her.
After all, I also believed humanity was screwed.
When I finished breakfast, I grabbed my backpack, ready to head to school, but before I reached the door, Mrs. Thompson's raspy voice stopped me.
"Don't pay attention to what those idiots say," she finally said. "They're always looking for something to do to forget their own horrible lives."
I stood frozen for a few seconds.
That was probably the closest thing to warmth I had received in my entire life. And it was strangely surprising that it came precisely from a bitter, distrustful old woman.
I felt a small smile form on my face, though I tried to hide it immediately.
Maybe… maybe my life was improving a little.
"Thank you…" I murmured.
I opened the door, and before stepping out, I added, "And your cat is still very ugly."
"Ungrateful brat!" I heard her yell behind me.
I laughed quietly as I closed the door.
Laughing felt strange.
Almost foreign.
I didn't know I was still capable of doing something like that so naturally.
I pulled a small book from my backpack as I walked toward the bus stop.
*Letters to a Young Poet.*
It was probably the only truly valuable thing I owned. The only gift from my mother that I could consider truly mine. I always carried it with me; I never left it at home for fear that my father would find it and tear it apart while calling me a fairy in that contempt-filled voice that I could still hear perfectly in my head.
The bus arrived shortly after.
I got on, paid, and felt the majority of glances lock onto me the moment I stepped down the aisle. Conversations began to die down slowly, replaced by barely disguised whispers.
That was the bad thing about living in a small town.
When something sensational enough occurred, everyone found out quickly and talked about it for weeks, as if nothing more interesting existed in their miserable lives.
I sat by the window while pretending to read the open book in my hands.
In the previous weeks, the bullying had worsened.
The morons at school seemed to have found a new amusement in mocking my father for being a murderer. I didn't give it too much thought. It was just a few slams against lockers, shoves, trips to the ground, and constant laughter around me.
Though yes… the stares had increased.
And so had the whispers.
If I rarely visited the nurse's office before, now I was practically a regular customer.
But I didn't react.
As long as they didn't speak directly about my mother, there was no point in playing their game.
I thought I could continue to ignore everything and go on living in relative peace.
Or at least, that's what I wanted to believe.
Now my hands were covered in blood and small scratches.
In front of me, Tyler Madkenson lay sprawled on the floor with his nose shattered, bleeding profusely, while several students backed away around us—those same idiots who had been cheering Madkenson on to hit me were now retreating in fear. I heard nervous whispers and ragged breathing mixed with the sound of someone calling for a teacher.
My cheek burned with pain, and I could barely open one of my eyes.
Tyler had hit me too.
But I could hardly think about that anymore.
I just wanted to ignore it all.
I really tried.
However, I couldn't help myself when he smirked and said my mother was a whore who got exactly what she deserved.
I could handle them mocking me.
I could handle the blows.
I could even handle them talking about my father.
But apparently, even after everything…
I still loved my mother.
That very strange woman whom I never came to understand.
It didn't take long before the teachers showed up, and everything ended exactly as anyone would expect.
Tyler Madkenson was taken to the hospital.
And I ended up sitting in a chair, covered in dried blood and bruises.
Now I was truly screwed.
I don't know how long I remained trapped in my own head until I felt something cold press against my cheek. I blinked slowly and found the nurse leaning over me.
Most of the time I ignored her when she tried to talk to me. She was too kind for someone working in a place like this.
And now she was looking at me with the expression I hated most in the world.
Pity.
"Don't move," she murmured as she wiped the blood from my face.
Then I realized something.
I wasn't in the nurse's office.
I was in the headmistress's office.
The woman was pacing back and forth while talking furiously into the phone.
"No, you don't understand!" she snapped. "The boy practically destroyed another student's nose. The parents are threatening to sue the school, and half the town is already talking about it. If this hits the local press, we'll have a massive problem."
She fell silent for a few seconds as she listened to the reply on the other end.
"Yes, I know perfectly well. I know who his father is. Believe me, the whole damn town knows."
I laughed a little upon hearing her.
I never imagined seeing the headmistress lose her composure like that. She always seemed like a woman incapable of even getting a hair out of place.
She glared at me the moment she heard my laugh.
"Do you find this amusing, Snape?"
I didn't answer.
The nurse sighed before putting some drops into my injured eye.
The sting made me clench my jaw.
"You'll need to wear a patch for a few weeks," she said softly. "Your eye is far too swollen."
The headmistress spoke into the phone again.
"I don't want this to keep spreading," she continued. "There are already enough rumors about his mother's murder. If people also start saying the son of a murderer almost killed another student, my school's reputation will be compromised."
The words *son of a murderer* hung floating like an echo for a few seconds.
The nurse looked away uncomfortably.
I simply stared at the floor.
Then, after a few long minutes, there was a knock at the door.
"Come in!" the headmistress called out, exhausted.
A woman with a tired face entered the office carrying a briefcase stuffed with files. Her ID badge hung crookedly from her neck.
Social Services.
Of course.
The moment the woman saw me, she let out a barely perceptible sigh, as if she already knew exactly what kind of trouble she was facing.
The headmistress began to explain everything in vivid detail: the fight, the hospital, the threats from Tyler's parents, and the rumors already running through the town.
"The boy's situation was already delicate before this," she added finally. "His father is in prison for homicide, and technically he has no stable legal guardian."
The social worker rubbed her forehead in exhaustion.
"Is he currently still living with Mrs. Thompson?"
"Temporarily," the headmistress replied. "But she made it clear from the beginning that she does not intend to take legal responsibility for him."
The woman nodded slowly as she opened a folder.
"The problem is there aren't many places available right now. Foster homes are saturated, and considering his age…" She glanced at me sideways. "…he'd likely end up in a standard juvenile detention center."
The headmistress made a grimace of distaste.
"That would be a disaster."
"I know."
For the first time since she had walked in, the social worker seemed genuinely frustrated.
"Look, normally in cases like this, a psychological evaluation is conducted first, followed by an academic review, and then it's determined whether the minor needs relocation or simply temporary supervision. But this…" She looked at the papers again. "…this is too high-profile to handle as an ordinary case."
The headmistress crossed her arms in frustration.
"The parents are already talking amongst themselves. Some want him expelled immediately. Others don't want their children sharing classes with 'the son of a murderer'."
Hearing that wasn't even upsetting anymore.
It was just exhausting.
The social worker stayed quiet for a few seconds before asking, "May I see his academic records?"
The headmistress handed her the file.
The woman began to skim through it absently… until gradually her expression shifted.
"Your marks are impressive, Mr. Snape," she commented, turning the pages. "Good enough to enter a major university in the future."
The headmistress nodded.
"Snape probably has the best academic record in the institution."
She closed the file slowly before looking directly at me.
"Why did you do it? Do you understand that an expulsion could ruin your future?"
I didn't answer.
"There is a possibility," she said finally. "It's complicated, but it exists."
The headmistress leaned forward a bit.
"What kind of possibility?"
"There is a private religious boarding school. It's quite far from here and very prestigious. They have a special scholarship program for students with outstanding academic records and severe family situations."
"Would they accept a case like this?"
"I don't know," she admitted honestly. "They are extremely strict. They review backgrounds, disciplinary history, psychological reports, everything. Furthermore, we would need to expedite the paperwork before this incident is officially recorded as aggravated assault."
The headmistress muttered a curse under her breath.
"Then we must move fast."
The social worker began listing things off as she went through documents.
"We would need letters of academic recommendation, medical records, reports of the father's arrest, death certificates, temporary state authorization, and a remote interview with the boarding school's committee."
The headmistress looked increasingly tired.
"Perfect. More paperwork."
"We'll also have to decide what official version we'll give regarding the fight," the woman added. "If this scales too much, the boarding school might reject him for violent behavior."
There was silence.
Finally, the headmistress spoke.
"We'll say it was an incident provoked by continuous bullying."
The social worker looked up.
"Is that what happened?"
The headmistress observed me for a few seconds.
"I don't need to like Mr. Snape to know when a student has been pushed to the limit for months."
I didn't know what to say to that.
The social services woman packed the documents back into her briefcase.
"I'll try to send the application today. But if they agree to transfer him, everything will have to be handled with discretion."
The headmistress let out a dry laugh.
"Too late for discretion. By tomorrow, this town will have invented five different versions of what happened."
I looked at the patch over my eye, vaguely reflected in the office window.
Ah…
Without a doubt, I would be the talk of the town for a very long time.
Time passed far too quickly.
It was surprising how much they could speed things up when it came to getting rid of you.
Barely two days after the fight, I found myself standing in front of the door of that old house with a small suitcase in my hands and a patch covering one of my eyes. I was wearing the clothes I had found in the bedroom drawer because they were the only ones without visible holes or patches. According to the social worker, I had to "look presentable."
As if a clean outfit could fix a broken life.
I looked around one last time before leaving.
Everything looked old and miserable.
And yet…
That miserable place had ended up feeling closer to a home than anything I had ever had before.
The thought left a strange taste in my mouth.
Just as I was about to open the door, I heard Mrs. Thompson's raspy voice behind me.
"Snape."
I turned around slowly.
She was standing at the end of the hallway, holding her horrible cat in her arms. The animal stared intently at me with those unpleasant yellow eyes that seemed to judge my very existence.
The old woman walked toward me with slow steps, stopping right in front of me. For a moment, I thought she would complain again about the noise, about society, about youth, or about the electricity, or any other typical grievance of hers.
But instead, she held out a small book.
I took it, confused.
The cover was somewhat worn, and the pages were yellowed with time.
*Life Is a Dream.*
I ran my finger over the title in silence.
"You're probably the only lad who has lived with me in this old house that I didn't completely dislike," she murmured finally.
I couldn't help a small smile appearing on my face.
"I don't completely dislike you either… though your cat is still horribly ugly."
"And you are still an insolent brat."
But this time, she didn't sound truly angry.
Mrs. Thompson let out a small, tired laugh. One of those soft laughs that seemed strange on someone who normally looked angry at the whole world.
And then I saw her smile.
Just a little.
A faint smile framed by deep wrinkles and years of accumulated bitterness.
But it was real.
"I hope you live and find happiness, Severus Snape."
I felt something strange tighten inside my chest.
Something heavy.
Something that hurt.
I lowered my gaze quickly before murmuring, "Thank you…"
And then added in a lower voice, "For letting me stay here."
The old woman didn't reply right away.
She just adjusted the cat in her arms while watching me in silence.
"Get going before I start liking having you around," she grumbled finally.
I laughed a little under my breath.
There it was again, that strange feeling.
It still surprised me to discover that I was still capable of laughing.
I nodded one last time and left the house without looking back.
The social worker was already waiting outside in an old, neglected gray car. She had a lit cigarette between her lips and an exhausted expression, like someone who had spent too many years dealing with other people's problems.
I got into the passenger seat without a word.
She started the car in silence.
The town began to slowly disappear behind us.
The small streets.
The old houses.
The newsagent's shop.
The bus stop.
Everything began to fall behind as the road stretched out and the landscape changed bit by bit, turning into long stretches bordered by dark trees and overcast skies.
I rested my head against the window and absently opened the book Mrs. Thompson had given me.
The pages smelled of dampness and old paper.
I turned several pages until stopping at a phrase marked in faded ink:
"What is life? A frenzy.
What is life? An illusion,
a shadow, a fiction;
and the greatest good is little;
for all life is a dream,
and dreams, dreams are."
I read those words over and over again.
An illusion.
A fiction.
Maybe my life really felt like that.
Like something distant.
Unreal.
As if everything had occurred too fast to process properly.
My mother dead.
My father turned into a murderer.
Me fleeing toward an unknown boarding school with an eye patch and a borrowed suitcase.
I closed the book slowly.
For an instant, I remembered my mother sitting by the window, reading in silence while the rain beat against the glass. I remembered her tired hands turning pages slowly. I remembered how some nights she would read whole passages to me, thinking I was asleep. And I remembered how I hated her for not being able to love me.
And for the first time since her death… I felt afraid of forgetting the sound of her voice. Because I realized I was no longer able to remember her face.
The social worker blew smoke out the window before speaking.
"You know, normally kids in your situation end up in much worse places."
I didn't answer.
She didn't seem to expect me to, either.
"Your headmistress practically forced the boarding school to review your application ahead of time," she continued. "I don't think she liked you very much, but she definitely didn't want to see you destroyed here."
I looked out the window again.
The houses had disappeared almost completely.
Only endless trees remained, swaying under the gray sky.
"That place you're going to…" The woman hesitated a moment. "It's strict. Very strict. But maybe that's better for you."
Maybe.
Or maybe they were just sending me far away so I would stop being a visible problem.
The journey continued for hours until we finally arrived at the train station.
The place was filled with noise, hurried footsteps, and conversations blending amidst distorted announcements from the loudspeakers.
The woman put out her cigarette before handing me several documents.
"Your passport. The transfer papers. The train ticket. And this…" She pulled out a folded envelope. "…these are the temporary authorizations until the boarding school completes your official admission."
I took everything in silence.
She observed me for a few seconds before sighing tiredly.
"Someone will be waiting for you when you arrive."
I nodded.
The woman hesitated a moment before saying, "And… try not to cause any more trouble this time, alright?"
I didn't know what to answer.
Because I wasn't sure if trouble simply happened around me, or if I actually carried it with me everywhere I went.
She seemed to understand my silence and only gave me a brief, awkward pat on the shoulder before heading back to the car.
I watched her leave until she disappeared into the crowd.
And then I was completely alone.
Again.
I entered the station, gripping the suitcase tightly while following the signs to the correct platform. When the train finally arrived, a conductor took my ticket, punched it, and let me pass with barely a quick glance.
I walked through several carriages until I found an empty compartment.
I sat by the window, leaving the suitcase at my feet.
The train began to move slowly.
And just as the station lights started to recede, a song began to play softly through the carriage loudspeakers.
"We can be heroes… just for one day…"
I looked up slightly.
The voice sounded distant, blending with the constant surrounding noise, making it impossible not to notice.
I leaned my head against the window as I watched the landscape shift outside.
The trees rushed past under the growing darkness.
The roads vanished.
The lights of the towns fell behind one by one.
And for the first time in a very long time…
I had no idea what awaited me at the end of the road.
But I was excited for what my future would be.