-Ash
Pain.
When you are in pain, setting the pain aside and focusing on another purpose makes things easier, doesn’t it?
Like counting numbers, naming colors, objects, or searching for patterns on the ground.
But when your body has grown used to pain, is there really any point in focusing on something else?
Now, as blood runs down from my forehead, I question this.
An ordinary day… at least for me.
By the time I finally went outside, it looked as if my head would burst. You understand the event.
At first. Pain. Loss of balance.
As if I were about to faint.
I had bought a cloth, let it be dirty.
There is no luxury of wanting a new one.
For a slave, there is no such thing as luxury.
For a weak demon.
While cleaning the cloth I would be locked up and hidden away again on the cold floor.
I don’t care about the pain.
First insults, then slaps, punches… Then blood, bruises, and sometimes broken bones.
Predictable things.
Today I was unlucky. The master was drunk.
And because I spilled a little water this time, he snapped.
At the end of the day, nothing changes.
And again, I find myself thinking of the imitations.
“Useless, as always.”281Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8z7upFEdTW
“You should never have been born.”281Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKeHFRJWw8d
“You’re nothing but a waste.”
And more… and more…
Distractions don’t work like they used to.
Attention has no meaning. It’s all the same, or similar.
I know them all.
I memorized them all.
All of them fit.
All of them hurt.
Maybe it hurts because they’re true.
And when you know the truth so clearly, you cannot lie to yourself.
And the truth is… I am powerless.
I was weak.
And I will remain so.
If you are a demon, you cannot be weak.
If you are a copy, there’s only one problem.
A disappointment.
Nothing but something that deserves to suffer.
Because weak imitations are no better than hybrids.
They have powers, but just a little.
Yet they can’t even use their powers.
And the amount of their powers increases even more.
Signs of weakness are not very common; in fact, they’re quite rare.
When weakness is discovered, most are killed by their families.
The reason is predictable.
They are mistakes.
A figment of the family’s imagination.
If they continue living with the family, it’s like a curse.
There is no reason to let them live.
That’s why most families kill them and move on with their lives as if nothing happened.
Sometimes the family sells the weak demon to the family of a strong human; like my family did.
Since childhood, I’ve been their slave.
And slaves have no rights.
“You’re lucky because your family didn’t kill you.”
Now, through a lifetime of suffering, without ever being given a proper rest, forced to serve the needs of these people.
Even if they give you trash to eat… you’ll eat it.
You’re lucky because you’re alive.
You’re lucky because your family didn’t kill you.
I repeat this mantra until my thoughts are interrupted by the master’s voice:
“Go clean your filth, bastard! It won’t clean itself! Do it properly this time or I’ll really hurt you!”
I got up.
You can’t keep your master waiting; naturally it only leaves more scars on your body.
I walked over with the cloth in hand.
There, he stood with an unreadable expression.
Pointing at the spilled water, marked by broken glass.
He left, meaning: it better be done before I return.
I began picking up the pieces.
My hand hurt, but it didn’t matter.
It never did.
All the shards gathered and thrown into the trash.
Then I grabbed a few napkins and wiped the water away.
As I wiped, I saw my reflection in the water.
Pale skin.
Black eyes.
White tones.
Crimson, unhealthy, long, messy hair.
And black demon horns.
Just those things reminding me of my weak traits.
Nothing but a slave.
This is my life.
Just serve, suffer, endure torment.
No more than three words.
The master’s wife says I should pray.
Says she can even see something worse in me.
I wonder…
What could possibly be worse than this?
ns216.73.217.110da2
and then Add to home screen.